


Vox Libertas

by ForFutureReference



Series: Dandelion in the Storm [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Also I never thought I have to put this disclaimer up when I started, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergent Mockingjay, Gen, Look at the little butterflies sow their chaos... glorious chaos..., Slow Burn Everlark, but this is not a Peeta/Gale romantic endgame, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 175,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForFutureReference/pseuds/ForFutureReference
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chain of events in the final minutes of the Quarter Quell causes the victor rescue to go a bit differently than expected. Will Peeta be able to handle his role as the face of the Rebellion? And how will this effect the course of the war and beyond? Canon-divergent "Mockingjay" and Peeta POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Missing Nail

"Guys, we have a problem."

Most of us have been on edge ever since we heard the cannon go off right after Katniss and Johanna left, and there's now this heightened feeling of anxiety that never leaves my gut.

So naturally, when we hear Chaff's voice with no prelude to his arrival, Finnick and I jump, and Finnick almost sends a trident hurtling in his direction before recognition sets in.

_How can someone that big sneak up on us like that?_

Chaff ignores our surprised reactions. He's out of breath and covered in blood, though judging from the apparent lack of injuries, it's not his.

"What's wrong?" Finnick asks. " I thought you agreed to keep separate from us to keep watch."

"I did, and that's what I'm here about. Just came across the pair from Two. Managed to ambush them and kill Brutus, but Enobaria escaped. I think she may be headed in your direction. Came across the wire and followed it up. Speaking of which: where's Jo and Fire Girl?"

Almost in response to his question, the wire along the ground jumps back to us in coils, signifying that it had just been cut. The feeling of anxiety quickly shifts to dread, then full-blown panic. _I never should've agreed to splitting us up._

I scream out Katniss' name and start to run towards her before immediately being tackled to the ground by Finnick.

"Chaff, I need somebody to watch over Peeta and Beetee. I'm going over to catch up with the girls. No cannons sounded yet, which should be a promising sign." Before I can say anything, he bounds off swiftly like an deer in flight. After he leaves, the only thing that can be heard is Beetee, either humming a tune to himself or muttering a disturbingly wide assortment of profanities, as he works on the tree; apparently he's oblivious to the fact that his plan had just been sabotaged.

I get up and try to follow Finnick, but Chaff's arm wraps around my torso, pinning me in place, which is actually impressive for someone with just one hand. I struggle against him and scream out Katniss' name some more.

"Get off me!" I snarl.

"Finnick told me to watch over you guys, and I can't do that while your apparently unarmed ass goes running off into the woods."

_Oh yeah, Beetee still has my knife…_

Despite that inconvenient fact, as well as my unwillingness to hurt Chaff after all that camaraderie we built up during the training, I'm running out of options. I attempt some of the wrestling moves I know to get out of a lock, but that just makes him tighten his hold.

"Dammit boy, quit your squirming! I'll cripple you if I have to."

I give him a mirthless smile. "You wouldn't dare injure me."

"No, but I could probably break that fancy leg of yours.

"Which would be a shame when the alliance is over; I'd hate for there to be no challenge when I hunt you down."

The hasty way at which he adds the last part makes me suspect that it's just for the benefit of the audiences. If that's the case, then the suspicion that I had early on in the Quell is correct: there's no intention to end the alliance. Their goal is to help keep us, or at least Katniss, alive even if it results in their death. That's all well and good, but what do they have planned?

Also, allies or not, they are deluding themselves if that's going to keep me away from her.

I narrow my eyes at him. "I'd like to see you tr—"

"Got it!"

Beetee's shout interrupts our impending scuffle, and we are graced by the sight of him running past us. I'm actually a bit surprised that he could run so quickly with his physical build, not to mention the wound he received. There is an expression on his face that's a mixture of fear and… elation?

All we do is just stand there awkwardly and gawk at his retreating figure as Chaff mutters, "The hell…"

Cold realization dawns on me: _We're standing right next to the tree…_

Before I can warn Chaff that we really _do_ need to get a move on, lightning strikes and the ensuing blast knocks us both into oblivion.

~oOo~

"Volts, tell me why I shouldn't wring that scrawny little neck of yours."

I wake up to the sound of Chaff gruff voice and feeling like a sack of flour is lying on top of my head.

Looking around, I see that Chaff and I are in hospital beds on a hovercraft. Though we have some tubes stuck in our arms, we aren't restrained. Judging from that, as well as the comfortable way that Beetee is sitting in front of us, my initial fear that we were taken by the Capitol begins to recede.

Beetee, who's patched-up and in his own hospital gown, looks confused. "I don't see what the issue is. I got you all out, didn't I?"

"And forgot to mention the little fact of there being an exploding tree?"

"Actually, it wasn't the tree that exploded. It was the for—"

"I don't give a damn if it was Bread Boy who exploded! You should have warned us."

"But I did."

"Shouting 'Got it!' doesn't qualify as a warning." Chaff grows louder and more exasperated by the moment, and he actually looks about ready to give Beetee a complete beat-down.

At this, Beetee isn't cowed but simply sighs: "If I explained the plan in more detail, it may have blown our entire cover, which would have meant that none of us would have been able to escape."

Chaff's anger begins to dissipate, though he still looks more than a bit displeased. Thus I decide to take that opportunity to ask Beetee some questions of my own.

"So that whole part about the electrocuting the water was a feint?"

"Correct." Beetee is clearly pleased that there is a little less hostility directed towards him this time. "The actual plan was to utilize the lightning strike to overload the force field to allow for the hovercraft to pick us up. That is why I needed to utilize your knife, and that is why Plutarch set-up the arena the way it was and included the spool of wire."

"You mean to say that the Head Gamemaker was helping us escape?"

"I was indeed." Plutarch Heavensbee says as he comes into our room. Following him is Haymitch, who's looking strangely sober.

They decide to cut to the chase and give me the picture of what's going on: The underground movement to oppose the power of the Capitol. The effect we had when we were about to eat the berries, during our victory tour, and when I dropped that bombshell during the interview. Our symbolic nature. The plan to break us out of the Quarter Quell arena, including the participation of many of the victors plus the Gamemaker. The fact that now most of the districts are in full-scale rebellion; many are calling it the "Mockingjay Rebellion". That District Thirteen is indeed not only not destroyed, but is the head of said rebellion. And that we are headed there right now.

"That's great! By the way, is Katniss doing alright? The line cut had me worried, but I didn't hear any cannon fire."

When no one responds, a knot of growing unease forms in my stomach.

"Haymitch, where's Katniss?"

He attempts to skirt around the question in a matter-of-fact tone. "We wanted to grab both of you, as well as well as Beetee due to his technical know-how. So when you separated—"

"Where. Is. Katniss?" My voice gains a hard edge to it as the knot builds up tension.

"… She was captured by the Capitol, as were Johanna, Finnick, and Enobaria. I'm sorry."

Haymitch barely finishes his sentence before my vision clouds, and I lunge forward out of bed with the expressed intent of wrapping my hands around his neck. Instead, I simply end up falling face-first on the floor due to the now-obvious lack of my left leg. Before I can get myself up, something pumps sedatives through the tube in my arm. It takes effect almost immediately, making me unable to move effectively from my prone position.

As I'm hauled back onto my bed, I manage to muster up enough energy to scream repeatedly, "YOU PROMISED!"

The last thing I hear, as unconsciousness takes me and my screams fade into whimpers, is Haymitch's somber voice:

"Yeah, I did. I promised her that we would get you back alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While as original as a Chinatown Rolex, I thought the AU MJ concept was interesting to tackle, and I didn't want to simply do a character palate swap. Katniss and Peeta have drastically different personalities, which may affect things down the road. Whether that's for for better or worse... you'll see.  
> In any case, I look forward to your thoughts on this.


	2. Breaking

I've been played, and it's so obvious that I should've seen it coming.

Of course he also had promised Katniss that I'd survive this. It encouraged us to protect one another so that at least one of us had a good chance at being rescued.

I don't know what they have planned for me. Honestly, I don't really give a damn right now.

To his credit, Haymitch doesn't show his face to me for the rest of the trip. If there's anything he wants, he relays the message to me through Chaff or Beetee. In the end, I do understand why he did what he did. Also, I know that we'll have to face each other soon, but now is not the time.

I spend most of the journey in my room, either in bed or on the chair next to it. And it's not because I'm moping. Yes, part of it is so I don't have to run into Haymitch. However, another part is that ever since I ran into that force field, and then said force field exploded, my fake leg has been malfunctioning. Beetee is currently working on it, but he tells me that, since prosthetics aren't his specialty, it probably won't be up to optimal condition. So I'll likely be walking with a limp until a better repair person or replacement is found.

_Oh well, it's not as if I was a graceful person even when I had two natural and uninjured legs._

If there is any person I really talk with, it's Chaff. There's the obvious fact that we share a room, but the main thing is that we already gained that rapport before the Quell. The great thing about him is that, while he generally has a sardonic wit similar to Haymitch, he is way more good-natured and self-depreciating about it. He's also understanding enough not to prod or heap pity upon me. So the inane banter we have actually helps relieve a lot of the stress.

Beetee's someone else that I get along with. However, while friendly, he's not exactly the sociable or talkative type. Well, unless it has to do with something tech-related, in which case the rest of us usually have no clue what he's talking about. He also has this detached way of viewing things that can sometimes border on the unnerving.

I have little tolerance for Plutarch. Even without his former blood-stained position as Head Gamemaker, secretly a rebel or not, there is simply this pompous overbearing quality of his that's completely off-putting and sets my teeth on edge.

To avoid being detected or giving away our intended destination, the hovercraft has been taking a roundabout path through the districts, always staying away from populated areas. Also, as the Capitol and Two were the two places that we had to avoid completely, we were required to travel south for a distance before going east, then north.

Occasionally, I can see smoke rising in the distance during the day, or the orange glow of a burning community at night, signifying the ongoing conflict.

When we reach Twelve, we are even more roundabout in the way we travel. Apparently the whole district has been put under lockdown. From what I'm told, it's even worse in Three and Eleven; they are killing-off ten percent of the population in the largest city of each district. All things considered, Chaff and Beetee seem to be taking it relatively well. Chaff is used to the hardship and summary executions, and any anger he has, he seems to be storing inside for later. Beetee… rationalizes it away in a "repercussions are inevitable in the short term, so the only thing that matters is what happens in the long term" kind of manner; definitely unnerving.

 _I wonder how everybody in Twelve is doing._ I worry for all the people I know there: my friends, my family, Prim, Ms. Everdeen… even Gale.

A couple days into our trip, we settle down by a lake. For some reason, the area has a sense of familiarity to it.

"Why are we stopping?" I ask. For the longest time, it's been one non-stop voyage.

Chaff shrugs. "Apparently there's a couple passengers that we need to pick up."

It is not very long before the hovercraft takes off again. Several minutes, in walks one of the new passengers: the last person I wish to see.

"Hey, if it ain't the cousin…" From the way he delivers the last word, I suspect that Chaff doesn't believe that's the actual relation to Katniss.

I expected Gale to be angry. Besides the fact that it seems to be his default expression, he has every right to be angry with me; I'm here and Katniss is within Snow's clutches. However, there seems to be another set of emotions interplaying on his face: weariness, sorrow, and, for some inexplicable reason when he looks at me, pity.

"Gale, I—"

He silences me with an upheld hand. "Don't bother, Mellark. Can't say that I'm not upset about you being here instead of Katniss, but it'd be hypocritical of me to rip into you."

I'm now confused. "Why? What's—"

"I had one simple job: watch over Prim and Ms. Everdeen," Gale says as his voice briefly catches, "and I failed at that."

The knot in my stomach returns. "What happened?"

"I was out when the explosion occurred on the television and the Capitol cut the broadcast. By the time I ran back to the Victor's Village, they had a large set of Peacekeepers escorting the two to the train station. It was too risky for me to rescue them, so I backed off. For the looks of it, I think they're safe but…" He breaks off and looks away. "As they locked the place down, I knew that they would be coming for me and my family next. So we escaped and went to the location certain people told us to wait at in case of an emergency. Fortunately, they cut the power right after the explosion, so we were able to make an opening in the fence. We barely made it out before they completely manned and fortified the borders. It— it was supposed to be all three of our families."

I put my face into my hands. It's as if every single fear of mine is coming true. Except…

_It was supposed to be all three of our families? Then where's—_

"Peeta?"

My thoughts are interrupted as I look over to see a pair of wide gray eyes peering over the side of my bed. In spite of myself, I can't help but smile at owner of them.

"Hey, Posy. How are you?"

A small giggle comes from her. "Good. Gale took us for a trip to the forest. And now we get to ride in the flying house."

"That sounds like fun."

"Peeta, why you look so sad?"

 _Am I that obvious?_ "Just have a lot on my mind. That's all."

For being of such young age, Posy doesn't look like she believes me and proceeds to put a bundle of flowers on my bed. "Will this make you feel better? I pick them myself."

I pick the bundle up and look through it. Some of the flowers have already begun to wilt, but they are recognizable enough to jog my memory of the book I illustrated.

_Yellow stars upon scarlet tubes, Spigelia marilandica; light purple petals around a spiny orange cone, Echinacea purpurea; spray of maroon stars, Xanthorhiza simplicissima; three petals of white per flower set in whorls… Sagittaria latifolia._

"They… they're beautiful… Thank you." Even though the lower half of her face is obscured by my bed, I can tell she's giving me a big smile at my words. The smile helps me maintain my composure.

"Posy, are you bothering the boy?" Hazelle stands in the doorway while cradling a bundle.

_Huh, I don't remember her ever being pregnant…_

I suddenly notice how pale Gale has gotten. Something's wrong.

Posy, of course, is oblivious to this. "No. Just giving Peeta the flowers I pick."

"I'm sure he likes them. Come along now. Your brother needs to talk about something important." As Hazelle ushers Posy out of the room, she gives Gale a very pointed look.

Before he can say anything, I ask, "Whose baby is that?"

Despite how uncomfortable he looks right now, Gale doesn't mince words: "She's your brother's."

_No. Please no…_

"And why… do you have her?" The knot threatens to tear me apart from the inside out.

He takes a deep breath before saying, "After you were taken out, the Capitol had to show some sign of its might besides just sending in more Peacekeepers and closing the district off. Since you had symbolic value… they decided to strike back in their own symbolic manner. So they took your family and—"

This time, it's my turn to hold up a silencing hand. I need to see this for myself.

I look over Chaff and say in a measured manner, "Please tell them to bring me the footage. I know they recorded it."

* * *

My father, mother, brothers and sister-in-law are on national television… at the gallows in the town square. Though the nooses are already at their necks, the platform at their feet hasn't yet dropped.

Dad's resigned, Mother's livid, and my siblings by birth and law don't even bother keeping the tears at bay as they stand as close to each other as possible.

There is a call for any last words, and Dad's the one to speak:

"Peeta, whatever happens, know that we love you."

"No. Not all of us," my mother cuts in. Dad simply squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head, while my siblings look on in disbelief. Even a few Peacekeepers appear to be uncomfortable. Mother pays them no heed but continues:

"I know that family bonds are supposed to be unbreakable. But you have gone too far for me to call you my son.

"You could have simply allowed Everdeen to win. Our district would have still been graced with the honor and goods of having a victor. But no; you just had to play the part of the pitiful romantic and proclaim your love for that Seam Rat. Now look at where it's gotten you. Look where it's gotten us all, you worthless creature. Because this is all your fault.

"This. Is. All. Your. Fau—"

* * *

The platform drops at exactly the same moment I shut the television off. It's just me, Gale, and Chaff who's in the room. None of us say anything for a while, until Gale decides to break the silence.

"Ma insisted that I check on the baby. So right after the execution, I went over to the bakery and saw that she was spared. So I grabbed her and ran. Don't worry: she will be taken care…"

I don't bother saying anything in response; I just nod at key points. I think Gale currently is trying to encourage me, but by now, all the words have become an incomprehensible drone. He finally takes notice of this and quietly leaves. Chaff does the same, even though this is his room as well; something registers that he's leaving to give me some peace.

So when the door shuts, I allow myself to curl into a ball while sobs wrack my body and my mother's last words repeat in an endless loop. The words continue into my dreams, but it's no longer my mother saying them: it's Katniss.

* * *

 

***The Capitol: One Day Ago***

There are so many ways one can use break a person: physical torture, verbal and emotional abuse, even the addition of certain chemicals. But sometimes, it can be just as simple as showing them the possibilities. In any case, different people have different weaknesses. The key is finding that weakness. For someone like me, that sort of task usually isn't hard to do.

I walk into the detention facility where most of the captured victors are kept. The only one not there is Enobaria Jones; she was not part of the conspiracy, so she was allowed to go back to Two. As well as the three cells containing the people taken from the Quell, one cell also contains Annie Cresta.

The cell walls are made of transparent material so that each inhabitant can see, as well as hear, each other; the setup is most helpful when they start screaming or when… interrogative activities occur in the cells themselves.

I finally stop at the cell containing the person I intend to talk to. Unlike Johanna Mason and Finnick Odair, who are in the cells flanking her's, Katniss Everdeen bears no injuries from her capture and captivity. In fact, I ordered that she get immediate medical attention after her capture. I even had her cell furnished slightly more comfortably than the others and included a privacy screen, though it is not out of a sense of altruism.

I clear my throat to get her attention.

"Well congratulations Miss Everdeen, you finally convinced me. It's a pity that you couldn't have done it sooner during the Victory Tour."

She glares at me with a mixture of unmitigated hatred and fear; there's even a little defiance there. I don't really care either way about the first emotion, and the second is something that's quite desirable. It's the last emotion that I plan on crushing shortly.

I have a seat brought up so I can sit outside her cell. As she is unshackled like the rest of the captives, I dare not risk being in the same room with her at this point; at least not until I tell her what's at stake. "Considering the circumstances, Katniss— Do you mind if I call you Katniss? Of course you do. Well I'm still going to call you that.

"Anyways, considering the circumstances, it would be best that we continue this agreement of complete honesty with each other."

As she walks up to the wall, Katniss responds, "Fine by me. So, in which case…"

What follows is a profanity-laced tirade she bangs her fists against the wall. I'm actually kind of impressed at her vocabulary range. Once she has thoroughly expended her energy and crumples to the ground, I decide to continue:

"If you are quite finished, I'll start with a confirmation and clarification of Miss Mason and Mr. Odair's veiled comments after your capture. Yes, most of the districts are in rebellion. Yes, District Thirteen is inhabited and head of rebel forces. And yes, Peeta has been taken by the rebels and is probably nearing Thirteen right now. Also, judging from from their missing status, it is likely that the Hawthornes are joining him."

"Good." Her air of defiance seems to increasing. _Let's see how long that lasts._

"I thought you may see things that way, which is why I had to think hard of how to get you to cooperate. I could go on about how, without a strong hand, this nation will fling itself to pieces as the districts turn on each other. I could even show you our neighbor to the south as an example of such a real-life scenario. But I suspect you don't really care about that. In the end, you probably don't even really care about the Rebellion itself."

I have one of my assistants turn a projector on. "So I'm going to show you something that you do care about."

The projector shows Katniss' mother and sister in one of my guest bedrooms. They are being attended to by the same two redheaded Avoxes that I had service the District Twelve apartment during the Quell.

At the sight of that, any trace of that defiance is ground to a fine power and blown away, while fear takes precedence. Defeat also appears on the faces of the other detainees; they now know there will be no convincing her to defy me.

"Please don't hurt them," she whispers, an echo of that conversation we had over six months ago.

"Oh, I don't wish to. In fact, I'll allow them free movement within much of the Mansion grounds. They don't constitute a threat to me.

"Though, of course, it all depends on how you behave during your time here. Resist, and you can be sure they join the fate of your stylist." After the victors were captured, I had my staff display the body of Cinna outside the cells to showcase the price of defiance.

Before she can say anything, I continue: "However, harsh as I may be, I do reward obedience. You do what I ask, and I promise you that not only will no harm come to them, but both Peeta _and_ Mr. Hawthorne will be spared.

"Don't get me wrong, I can't guarantee that they will survive going into a warzone, but I will not personally order their deaths. And when the Capitol is victorious, I will let them live, in spite of any purpose they may play in the war. Besides, the last thing I need is another martyr."

She takes this all in and then looks to the inhabitants in the cells adjacent to her. "What about them?"

"Mr. Odair and Miss Mason were conspirators to the Rebellion's plans for you two. They have no claims to innocence and are to be punished. Thus, the tortures will not cease. Miss Cresta is here to further drive the punishment home. However…" I pause long enough to get everybody's attention.

"If you manage to toe the line, we can probably make room for certain… allowances down the road. And as she played no part in the recent events, I will also ensure that Miss Cresta remains physically unharmed for the duration of her captivity." I look over and see the last traces of conviction in Odair's face vanish to be replaced by a touch of pitiful hopefulness. Even Mason's internal fire has dimmed a bit.

I manage to suppress a slight chuckle as I dab away some excess blood. _This is almost too easy._

Katniss only hesitates momentarily before saying in a small voice, "Tell me what I need to do."

 _Excellent!_ I suspect that had the positions been reversed between her and Mellark, I may have had to take more… aggressive measures.

"You will have an interview with Caesar Flickerman in a couple hours. I'll send down a team to get you ready; you may recognize the stylist. Afterwards, you will be escorted to the medical wing for an important procedure."

To her credit, she does not ask me to elaborate what the procedure is. The only thing she asks is simply, "Is there anything else?"

That earns a smile from me. "Tonight, you and your family will be having dinner with me. There is no reason we can't get to know each other better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Katniss wasn't the one to actually shoot off the arrow, nor was Peeta involved, I could see Snow not deciding to slag Twelve if it meant keeping the "Mockingjay" in line. That doesn't mean he wouldn't have other methods of punishment in mind.


	3. Welcome to Thirteen

One could be forgiven in getting the impression that everybody wishes they didn't know me.

Ever since we picked the Hawthornes up, most people have now avoided speaking to me for the rest of the day. Actually, they have been straight-up avoiding me. Even Chaff transferred out of my room. Frankly, it's pretty annoying. It's as if some tragedy occurring to me would turn me into an unstable sack of angst that constantly needs his distance and would fall apart at the slightest provocation. Usually giving someone some time alone means giving them an hour or so, not almost half-a-day like it's been so far. Granted, I haven't exactly been reaching out for attention. In any case, the only company I have had for the rest of the trip has been Beetee and Posy.

Beetee has to interact with me anyways to get my leg working again. It's to the point that he simply moved in to take Chaff's spot as it made it easier to work on the spot. Another factor is his ability to not be weirded-out in my presence, which seems to stem from not having the same social philosophy as others. It reminds me of how he reacted to Wiress' death; he was clearly affected yet didn't temporarily shut down like Finnick had after Mags. So naturally, he probably wouldn't think that tragic news would affect someone's approachability. I would normally consider that unnerving, but right now it's a nice break from the usual.

In Posy's case, she's simply too innocent to understand the full magnitude of what's going on around her and simply sees a "sad boy" who's in need of attention, despite the protestations of others. Though in any case, most of our "conversations" have been pretty one-sided, and her visits mostly consist of her doodling on the walls; I have a feeling that will piss off Plutarch, which means that it has my full support.

Anyways, I'm definitely thankful towards both of them for the company.

I overhear that we are currently over District Thirteen proper, which is in good time as Beetee had just gotten done working on the leg. The thing works… barely. Beetee's right in that I'll definitely be walking with a limp for a while, and he suggests that I get a cane or something in the meantime.

I take a look out the window to get my first glimpse of the district.

The place is a mess.

It's definitely not the smoking wasteland the Capitol's broadcasts repeatedly showcase, but even after over seventy years, it's still doesn't look like a pleasant spot to live. In the places that clearly were formerly towns and cities, I can see faint outlines of what used to roads and buildings sprawl against the landscape. By now, all the rubble has been overcome with vegetation, and shallow dimples denoting craters can be seen here and there. Considering the expanse of everything, it is clear that they couldn't have been able to bring everybody underground. How many were left outside when the bombs fell?

As I'm pacing — okay, more like limping — back and forth to get the hang of using the repaired leg, a knock on the door frame heralds a new visitor to the room: it's Haymitch, and by now, I'm already prepared to receive him.

"Well lookie here," I sneer. "The oath-breaking lush decides to show his face. Plutarch mentioned that alcohol wasn't allowed in Thirteen, so I take it that you were busy drowning yourself as a way of compensating. Well I'm sorry, but last I checked, there isn't a secret stash here or anything."

There is no reply, so I continue on with the insults, most of them dealing with his alcoholism. I know it is bad form, and again, I understand why everything happened the way it did. But damn if this doesn't feel cathartic.

Haymitch just stands there and takes it and, when I finally run out of things to say, simply asks in a dry manner, "You finished yet?"

"… Yeah. Well, what do you want?"

"I just came to remind you that were getting close to our destination. It would be good to be prepped up. This is especially if you want to help Katni—"

"Don't do that," I snap.

"Do what?" He seems genuinely confused.

"Pretend that she is alive to buoy my hopes up or whatever. You don't know what happened to her. For all we know—"

I'm interrupted by Haymitch slamming me up against the wall. For a completely out-of-shape drunkard, it turns out he has a considerable amount of strength hidden behind that paunchiness.

"Boy, just this once, pull your head out of that romance-laden ass of yours," he growls with his face only inches away. "Yeah, I didn't tell you the plans. I also didn't agree to a harebrained idea to split up. And I'm not speaking as if she's alive out of hope. In fact, it'd probably be better if she were dead."

The last words sting, but he continues before I can retort: "Do you think that Snow wishes to have a martyr on his hands? It would be simple to kill her if she were some nobody. But no, she's the Mockingjay; everybody knows who she is and admires her, despite her less-than-stellar personality.

"It's one thing to have her dropped in the arena and killed that way. But executing her? That will only rile everybody up, including those in the Capitol. Snow probably wouldn't even risk making it look like an accident."

That gives me pause. "So what is he going to do with her?"

"Anything he can to discredit the Rebellion, even if he has to break her in the process. Torture, killing those she loves in front of her… anything. And trust me, when the Capitol breaks you, death will always be considered sweet mercy." My mind drifts back to Darius the Peacekeeper, now Darius the Avox, and any anger I have left is replaced with cold fear.

Haymitch notices this and backs up as his tone softens. "Of course, there's still time. Hell, there may still be time to help the other victors. So if you want to save the girl, you'd best play your part to help in bringing about a swift end to this conflict."

He stops briefly to take a look at the clock. "We're about to land in half-an-hour, so I suggest you get clean. There's a suit that should be around your size," he says nodding to a closet. "As you're going to meet the leader of Thirteen, it'd probably be good for you to not look like an escapee from the loony bin.

"Also," he almost whispers to me as if in fear of being overheard, "it'd be good to remember this: just because you're out of the arena, or even the Capitol's direct reach, doesn't mean the Games are over. We're going into uncharted territory here. So I suggest you be even more careful of what you do and say. I'll help you along the way as best I can, whether you like it or not."

Haymitch finally walks out to leave me alone to my thoughts. I decide to do what he says and clean myself off, via a quick shower, before grabbing the suit. I'll admit that it's a nice change of pace from either the jumpsuit, hospital gown, or running around in my skivvies.

_I hope Portia's alright._

Those thoughts are shaken away as I begin dressing myself. Of course the damn leg chooses to become uncooperative just as I'm putting the slacks on. After a couple minutes, and some choice words, I manage to get everything on without tearing any fabric. And just in time.

As the hovercraft descends, I can vaguely see squat rectangular structures among the vegetation, hinting at the extensive development underground. A large door opens up in the ground, revealing a hangar in which the hovercraft lands.

By the time I walk over to the main door of the craft, I see that everybody else has already assembled to disembark. Haymitch motions for me to stand in the front and middle of the group, between him and Plutarch. Gale, of all people, offers to assist me in walking, but I politely decline.

"Are you ready?" Haymitch asks.

"Do I have a choice?" I shoot back.

"Nope."

As the door lowers, I can see that Thirteen has already rolled out the welcoming committee, which seems to mostly be soldiers standing at attention. Unlike the white-clad Peacekeepers through, those present all bedecked in gray outfits that seem to be on the utilitarian side. In the middle of the group, and facing us, are a man and woman in more formal attire; actually, said attire looks almost identical to the uniform of a Head Peacekeeper, albeit with the same pervasive gray scheme of that I've seen so far.

The man has a name-tag that clearly reads as "Boggs". Despite looking to be in his mid-to-upper forties, he's in excellent shape and about the same height as Chaff. His closely-cropped gray hair and steel blue eyes help to convey an intimidating look; the stiff posture just amplifies it further. At the same time though, he also somehow gives off a feeling of trustworthiness.

The same can't be said for woman to Boggs' left, and directly opposite from me. She initially doesn't seem like much. Probably older than fifty, with straight gray hair that falls to her shoulders and not a single strand out of place — totally not creepy — and just-as-gray eyes; unlike those of the Seam, the ones peering at me lack any sort of depth to them. One may think that would make them look lifeless and dull; emotionless maybe, but definitely not dull. It is clear that behind those eyes is a cold calculating brain that picks apart everything it sees. They almost make me want to look away from her, but I suspect that right now would be a bad time to show any sign of weakness.

She is the first to speak: "Soldier Mellark, I'm Alma Coin, president of District Thirteen. I want you to know what a privilege it is to have you here. I assure you that the Mockingjay's sacrifice will not be in vain."

_Soldier Mellark?_

Also, her referring to Katniss in such a manner almost causes me to release a colorful retort, but I hold it back. And it's not just due to professional decorum.

Besides my initial feelings, there's something about Coin that just doesn't seem right. It could be the haughty way at which she carries herself, despite the welcoming tone of voice she uses to address me. It could be the look of seeming unease, if ever so slight and masked by façade of professionalism, which Boggs has around her. It could be that all of this reminds me of something back home: something familiar, even if it's wrapped in a cold package instead of a scalding one; something that I thought I would be rid of ever since that horrible video earlier.

Despite my feelings of all that has happened, Haymitch is right: I'm going into uncharted and possibly dangerous territory, and my ability to help everybody, Katniss included, depends on what I do next.

So I put on my best crowd smile and, as I hobble forward in front of everybody else with my hand extended for a shake, cheerfully respond to the greeting: "Hello, Madam President. It's great to finally meet you, and I'm glad to be here as a great asset to the Rebellion. Though if you don't mind, I may have some requests before we proceed."

At my implication that cooperation with Thirteen is to be conditional, Coin's face actually hardens more than before.

_Welp, there goes the warm welcoming._

Even though those colorless eyes of her’s are even more unnerving than Snow's reptilian ones, I simply keep the smile on my face and maintain eye contact. All the while, I'm steeling myself for the coming debate.

However, instead of arguing the point on the spot, she tersely instructs me to follow her.

"What about everybody else?" I ask, looking at the guys behind me. There's actually a ghost of an encouraging smile on Haymitch's face, which must mean that I'm doing something right… _right?_

"My men will instruct them to their appropriate quarters. In the meantime, if we are going to discuss things, we are going to do it in my office." There's a tone of finality Coin's statement that demands no further questions, so I decide not to push my luck.

Someone offers me a wheelchair, and I'm about to decline; however, I already seem to have struck a nerve with the locals, so I doubt that the sight of me hobbling to keep up will be any more endearing in her eyes. Fortunately, the controls are easy to figure out and, in less than a minute, I'm following her and Boggs out of the hangar and into the rest of Thirteen.

As we progress into the compound, I get a good look at Thirteen's symbol that's on display over the main entrance. In contrast to the Capitol's chrome eagle, Thirteen's represented by of a hand of iron raised in a clenched fist. Clutched tightly in the fist are clustered blades, with blood trickling down the arm, and below the symbol is a motto: _"VIRTUS IN UNITATE"_.

_Cozy…_

To say that Thirteen is the polar opposite of the Capitol is a severe understatement. It's not just the obvious "flashy city vs extensive bunker" comparison that gives this impression. In contrast to the colorful Capitolites and the leisurely way they take life, everybody in Thirteen is clad in slate gray, has their hair cut practically, and moves around with a rapid sense of purpose. While the Capitol is a pinnacle of excess, it's clear that everything around here is designed and treated towards the intents of maximum efficiency. However, I'm not sure if this dynamic is much better than the Capitol; there seems to be something… soulless about it.

I'm also not sure how people are able to navigate this catacomb of a district, though I guess growing up here must make it second nature.

We get into an elevator, which not only goes down several levels but also travels horizontally for a period of time. After more hallway navigation, we finally reach the president's office. Boggs is ordered to stay outside while the Coin and I go in. Once she settles at her desk, Coin doesn't waste any time getting to the point, which is something I can actually admire.

"Soldier Mellark, do you know that you were my first priority for retrieval? While the Mockingjay's symbolic nature in catalyzing the Rebellion is something we owe a great debt towards, your oratorical skills are a much more useful asset."

There it is again: we're "assets". However, instead of belaboring the point, I decide to counter with, "Madame President, do you know that the reason as to why I was such a passionate speaker during the Games?"

When she doesn't respond, I continue. "It was solely to protect Katniss. It was to rally the Capitol to fall in love with her so she may live, even at the expense of my own life. Because without her, I have nothing to work for. Considering what happened to my family… well, let's just say I have nobody to speak for anymore."

That last part's a lie.

There are all the people I know in Twelve who may still be around: Delly, Madge… There are all the people in the Capitol who helped us and are now at Snow's mercy: Effie, Portia, Cinna, the prep teams, the Avoxes… There are the Hawthornes and the surviving victors, be they here or held captive. Despite the way I've treated him earlier, there is even Haymitch.

And there are all the suffering and restless people I saw in Eleven and many other districts.

But if this to work, Coin can't know that at all. Not until everything has been secured.

"You do not know whether Everdeen has been killed by the Capitol," she says. "Helping us would bring a faster end to this release, possibly resulting in her rescue in the end."

"Key word being 'possibly'. And I am sure that Katniss is alive right now. The problem is the Capitol views her as an asset as well. The more I speak, the more they will likely hurt her. And I can't in good conscience be party to such a thing without knowing there's a way out for her."

And here's where things can fall either way. Coin stares at me for a long time, and I lock onto the stare despite every rational internal voice screaming at me to turn away.

Finally, she sighs. "So what do you want?"

_Whew…_

"First and foremost: may I please have a pen and paper?"

When I given the items, I begin writing down the contract as I vocalize it out at the same time.

"Peeta Mellark agrees to devote himself to the cause of the Rebellion. In return for his devotion, there will be certain agreements made:

"Condition Number One: Amnesty for Katniss Everdeen and her family."

I look up from the paper to elaborate, "It's obvious that she hates the Capitol, but she also has a strong sense of preservation for those close to her. Since her mother and sister were taken by the Capitol, it's obvious that they will be waved in front of her as a warning should she step out of line. So anything she may say is likely due to coercion, which most will recognize. And of course, whoever imprisons or kills the Mockingjay is unlikely to retain sympathy of the districts."

I hate talking about Katniss like this, but I suspect that things have to be laid out practically for Coin to accept them.

"Fine. Next?"

"Condition Number Two: Amnesty for the other victors captured by the Capitol: Finnick Odair, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Jones, and Annie Cresta." On the flight over, I was informed that the Capitol took Annie as well. Considering the incident with the Jabberjays, it's clear why she was taken.

"No. The Mockingjay has symbolic value to the Rebellion. The others have no such luxury."

I counter, "Remember that Finnick saved my life, and both of them helped to keep us safe. It's clear that Finnick and Johanna were part of the Rebellion, and the Capitol will treat them as such. Not to mention that it wasn't their fault they weren't picked up." I'm treading on thin ice with that last line, but nonetheless continue on. "Annie's isn't even mentally fit to be responsible for her actions. And in the end, the victors are heroes in their districts. Keeping them alive carries good morale value."

"And the District Two victor? If I recall, she was an adversary to your alliance."

_Good question. Why did I include Enobaria there?_

"I included her out of a sense of fairness and mercy; in the end, she's just as much a victim of these Games as the rest of us. Also, going with my previous mention about victors representing the districts: keeping her alive can be a positive gesture towards Two as well, and I suspect you'll need all the positive gestures you can take when dealing with the Career districts."

"… Fair enough. Next."

"Condition Number Three: Amnesty for those who assisted me and Katniss before the games: Effie Trinket, our stylists, prep teams, and the Avox servers."

This doesn't garner the expected vocal objection, but Coin does raise a perplexed eyebrow.

I explain: "Without them, we wouldn't have become the symbols we are today. I'll also have you know that one of the Avoxes directly stood up to the Capitol before his… procedure.

"Lastly, building upon the previous terms, if the opportunity presents itself, there will be an attempt to rescue Katniss and the others." Before Coin can object, I reiterate, "Again, if the opportunity presents itself. I understand the concern to not rush into anything rash."

That seems to placate her. "Is that all?"

"That should be it," I chirp.

"Then I would like you to write this down as well, Soldier Mellark: 'These terms are only valid so as Peeta Mellark performs to the best of his capacity and shows his devotion. Any break from the mission, be it through words or actions, immediately nullifies the agreement. All named persons will fall under jurisdiction of District Thirteen law, including Peeta Mellark himself.'"

My blood runs cold at the implication, but I keep the cheerful tone. "Wouldn't expect anything less. I hope you don't mind if I request that you repeat this all publicly."

I finish writing everything down as Coin wastes no time repeating the terms into a microphone, which carries the message to speakers located throughout the complex. _No turning back now._ After I place my signature, I give the paper for Coin to sign and then let her keep it as a "gesture of good faith".

After we shake on it, she finally dismisses me from her office.

"I want you to attend the first meeting to get an understanding of what's at stake. Commander Boggs will escort you to Command."

I follow Boggs out of the office and, once we finally round the corner, finally allow myself to relax my composure and release a big sigh of relief. Luckily, I'm still in the chair — otherwise I probably would have slumped against the wall — though my hands are slightly trembling from the ordeal.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Soldier Mellark."

Boggs speaking for the first time catches me completely off-guard, and I'm unsure whether to take his comment as a threat or sincere warning. Also, to be on the safe side, I should probably continue to treat any conversation I have as if it can be overheard.

"No more dangerous than the games I played beforehand," I remark breezily.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that. President Coin doesn't take challenges lightly."

"I don't wish to challenge anybody except Snow. I just want to make sure all my friends get out of this alive."

"I know. You should still be careful."

_Why is he telling me this?_

I decide to trust the guy and take his statements as warning.

We finally enter into the command center where I'm mobbed by a bunch of people. While they do welcome me, I can see that many of the District Thirteen officials seem to be slightly displeased. They probably didn't expect my devotion to the cause to be conditional. _Well, tough break._

I wheel myself next to Haymitch, who definitely does not seem to be taking the lack of booze well. Just a couple hours after landing, and his complexion already has a sickly pallor to it.

He takes a sidelong glance at me. "I hear you strong-armed Coin into agreeing to terms before you agreed to work for the Rebellion. Clever move."

"I like to think of it as negotiations, but thanks anyways. Where's everybody else?"

"Chaff and the Hawthornes are getting settled into their rooms. Beetee was almost immediately taken to the weaponry department. And, as you can see, Plutarch's here at the command center."

An awkward period of silence passes between us before I mumble, "Look, Haymitch: I'm sorry about the things I said earlier. I don't know what came over me."

"Sure you do; you're angry with me. If you weren't, I would have seriously pegged you to be a complete asshole who doesn't care about anybody or a psychopath. Either way, it wouldn't reflect too favorably upon you. Nobody's that sincerely forgiving." I look up at him, and he has a mixture of amusement and sadness on his face.

"Still, I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah yeah, apology accepted.

"In any case, I'm actually impressed that you used your speaking skills for something other than pleasing the crowds. That part about what I do with the empty bottles when I'm alone…"

"Yeah, I seriously don't know how I thought that up." I shudder. "Come to think of it, I really don't want to know either."

Not sure if it's my last statement that's the trigger or if it's something else, but out of nowhere, both of us just begin chuckling, which soon turns into full-blown laughter; likely it's at how screwed-up our whole dynamic is. Everybody else looking on with a mixture of confusion and concern, but neither of us care.

The laughter is cut short by the Capitol broadcast. Caesar Flickerman is going through his usual flashy introductions before welcoming a special guest to his show.

It's Katniss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good ole District Thirteen, where the uniforms, wall scheme, and "food" probably share the same level of excitement for the populace.


	4. Moves...

I have been worried about how they have been treating Katniss, but she doesn't look like she has been physically abused during her captivity. Actually, she looks far healthier than she was during the Quell. It's clear that the medical professionals fixed her up after she was captured. Of course, there is a look of nervousness on her face, but that's a given.

Caesar gives her a hug and allows her to get comfortable before continuing with the show. "Katniss, good to see you alive and well. While I'm normally not allowed to take sides, I just want to tell you how much I was rooting for you. Though I wish the circumstances were better, with what's happening in the districts and all."

I doubt he's just referring to the fighting in the districts when he talking about "better circumstances".

Katniss just gives him a sad smile, "Thanks, though as you probably guess from the footage, my hope was that Peeta would be the one sitting in this chair."

"Yeah, I saw that. Both of you willing to sacrifice yourselves for the other…" Caesar sighs and puts his hand over his heart as he milks the sentimentality for all its worth. "Could you possibly give us a recap of your experience?"

While she has never been a good speaker, Katniss is nonetheless able to handle walking everyone through the Quell, while corresponding footage would play. The unfamiliar landscape, the alliance, all the traps, finding out that the arena is a clock, the relaxing time before the plan to electrocute the lake, and so on.

I have to admit that there is something surreal about seeing myself after I ran into the force field, though I guess that the footage of me being revived after our first games means that it isn't exactly the first time I have died on television. Also Katniss doesn't say anything, but simply blushes, when our kiss on the beach is shown; I myself feel heat rising to my face.

In the spots where she would hesitate, Caesar would helpfully fill in the spaces. Despite working for the Capitol, it's clear that he is trying to make her be as comfortable as possible, or at least look good, which I can appreciate. After she finishes talking about the dual between Enobaria and Johanna, and Finnick's attempted intervention, Caesar chimes in, "Though you probably didn't expect the rebels to do their little break-in of the arena."

The footage plays of the force field blowing up, with Chaff and I being knocked down by the blast. Then the hovercraft comes out to pluck up our unconscious bodies while Beetee gets on the ladder that drops down.

"No I didn't. Otherwise I would have never agreed to split up the group."

"Do you think that Peeta knew?"

With a growl she orders Caesar to replay the video again. This time it includes me screaming for her before the explosion.

"Does he look like he was in on any of the plans? If he was, I seriously doubt he would be standing so close to the explosion. Both of us were deceived."

"What about your mentor?"

"Again, Haymitch never allowed us in on his plans."

"Well, at least you got out with your child."

She fidgets with the throw pillow in her lap. "About that… Caesar, there's something important I need to say."

"Oh _fuck,_ " I turn towards the source of the expletive to see that any remaining color has drained from Haymitch's face. Before I can ask what's wrong, Katniss finishes:

"There is no baby."

_Oh fuck…_

"In fact, we were never married. All that was something Peeta crafted."

Caesar looks shocked. I can't tell whether he's just playing along or honestly thought our whole ruse was truth. "Why would he do something like that?"

"Why do you think? To play the audience and spite the Capitol."

"So the love was false?"

"I never said that," she retorts. "Why would Peeta go out of his way to protect me during both Games if he didn't care for me?"

"What about you?"

Katniss seems to mull that question over for eternity while looking at her feet. "I don't know what to think anymore."

After offering some comforting pats on Katniss' shoulder, Caesar asks, "What about your cousin Gale Hawthorne?"

That jerks her out of her reverie and she scowls. "He's not actually my cousin, if that's what you're asking."

"What would you say your relationship to him is?"

"We're friends. Been so for several years already. I don't see how this is relevant."

"Oh it's just that some footage was brought to our attention…"

It's the video of her kissing Gale in the woods. I remember her telling me about it back in Eleven, but that doesn't lessen the sting of actually seeing it. I want to bolt out of the room but instead put my face in my hands. _Is this how Gale felt when he had to watch us kissing during the Games?_

I look up to see that Katniss herself looks disturbed by the revelation of the video yet quickly brings herself under control. "At the time between the Games and Victory Tour, Peeta and I had a… strained relationship when he found out that our romance may have been a bit more one-sided than he thought.

"Still after that Gale and I remained friends. Nothing more, nothing less." Her tone and glare implies there is nothing more to discuss on that matter.

"I believe you." To his credit, Caesar sounds sincere. "On another subject, is it okay if I ask your opinion on the war? How do you feel about the rebels using you as a symbol?"

"I never asked to be a symbol. Also, if you don't mind, I'd like to tell you a short story."

"Go ahead, my dear."

"Thanks. A little while after the Victory Tour, I was out hunting—"

"Isn't hunting illegal?"

"Yes, but I did what I had to do to help my family." Caesar nods in acknowledgement, if not approval, of this. "While I no longer had to do it after being a victor, by now it has become force-of-habit.

"Anyways, I ended up running into two people fleeing from District Eight. I don't know what became of them, but what I do know is where their planned destination was:

"Thirteen."

"But District Thirteen is destroyed," Caesar muses.

"That's what I thought as well, until I checked-up onto a little hint the two runaways gave me. Whenever you see a broadcast of the district, it is shown as a smoking wasteland. However, in the corner of the image, there is a always the same mockingjay that flits by, which hints at the footage being reused. Why have the need to reuse the footage when the area is supposedly destroyed?"

"Why indeed…"

"In any case, my suspicions have been confirmed when I was informed that Peeta was taken with the others to Thirteen, which, it turns out, is very much alive. Turns out that it made a deal with the Capitol, to play dead and go underground, in return for not supporting the Rebellion during the Dark Days. It wouldn't be destroyed or have to participate in the Hunger Games, and the Capitol now lost a major enemy."

Caesar let's out a little theatrical gasp of surprise. Katniss simply shrugs at that.

"Believe me, I was just as surprised as you were. In any case, there's no point in keeping that a secret; they'll likely show their faces soon enough.

"Here's what I wondered though: if Thirteen was thriving all this time, why didn't it help the districts all during the time of the Hunger Games? Why wait until the country is about ready to tear itself apart to step in?

"That's when it hit me. There are only two possibilities available. Either Thirteen isn't as strong as idealists make it out to be…

"Or it is an opportunist, waiting until everything looks to be in its favor before stepping in to push the dagger into the Capitol's back. In the end, either option sounds pretty unreliable to me."

She looks straight at the camera. Her voice carries a tone of anger to it. "Is this the kind of ally you rebels want: one that abandoned all the districts when it was expedient and watched the Hunger Games without having to participate? Who's to say they won't abandon you again when the going gets tough?

"And Peeta, if you're hearing this, I'd suggest watching your back. This is what my gut tells me about Thirteen: once a backstabber, always a backstabber."

Caesar thanks her for her time and wraps up the show with a call for a return to the "regularly-scheduled programming".

As the closing jingle plays, Haymitch lets off a string of curses, and I don't blame him. I myself am busy rubbing my temples, trying to sort out the conflicting feelings. I'm definitely glad to see that she is not only alive but looking very healthy. However, the dark mutterings coming from the District Thirteen officials fill me with concern.

It's a good thing I made that pact with Coin when I did, because, otherwise, I doubt she would bother even sparing Katniss after this, let alone attempt a rescue venture.

Katniss is a terrible liar; everybody who knows her knows that. However, everything she is said is true, and it shows in the direct manner of speech, which is further bolstered by all that legitimate frustration bottled up inside her. The video of her and Gale kissing didn't hurt.

Her truths are exposing every well-crafted lie that Haymitch and I helped her with, and many people aren't going to take being lied to very well. More importantly, she is succeeding in portraying Thirteen as the powerful entity that hung everybody else out to dry until it was tactically expedient to get involved; hell, even I believe that. She may have not told the rebels to lay down their arms, but she pretty much implied that the fight is hopeless.

We haven't even begun, and the Capitol's first move is already putting us in check.

* * *

 

***The Capitol: One Day Ago***

_I'd like to see the silver-tongued liar talk his way out of that one._

The interview went beyond my wildest expectations, especially with that revelation at the end. No amount of scripted speech or elaborate lies could top the truths that Katniss spoke earlier this afternoon.

Of course, the video is not going to be aired immediately. I will probably wait until tomorrow, when it is projected that the fugitives will reach District Thirteen. Mellark will most likely be drafted to spout his rhetoric against us, and he always seemed more enthusiastic than Katniss. So it is best to hit him before he can get comfortable, but leave just enough room for him to begin recovering from the execution he undoubtedly saw.

The key is pacing.

In any case, I have more important business to attend to: hosting the Everdeens for dinner. Unsurprisingly, things are currently… awkward.

Katniss is focusing on nothing in particular. Primrose is looking at me with unmitigated hatred, especially whenever the male redheaded Avox comes around, though she wisely keeps her mouth shut. And their mother is keeping quiet for the duration while looking at both her daughters with concern.

Though all three are not displeased with their situation enough to avoid eating whatever is in front of them. This is something I can appreciate about district residents; they know to never let good food go to waste. The gorging and voluntary purging practiced here… disgusting habit.

So far, all we have been partaking in is shallow and terse small talk. So I think it best to have a conversation starter.

"It looks like you enjoyed the entrée. I'll have you know that this beef didn't come from District Ten, but was actually imported straight from Yamato."

Their perplexed expressions require me to elaborate. "It's a small island nation, across the ocean, which Panem has an economic relationship with. We indirectly trade with them for goods."

"Indirectly?" Primrose asks, her previous anger seeming to be forgotten.

"Well, there is another island nation, near District Four, that serves as a trade middleman for the sake of security. Of course, with the troubles occurring in Four, foreign imports have been put on hold."

"I have always gotten the impression that the rest of the world was destroyed."

"Well, that's a preposterous notion. If the Great Cataclysm was bad enough to wipe out all of humanity, do you seriously think that the inhabitants of North America would survive as well?"

After a moment's thought, both of the girls shake their heads. Though it causes Katniss to question, "Then why are we taught that we're the only ones around?"

"Why do you think?"

This time, Primrose answers almost immediately, "To keep us inside. If people knew that the area outside of Panem also had people, many would try fleeing."

"Exactly."

"Then why tell us all of this? Aren't you worried we might spread the information around?"

I stop eating my floating island to look levelly at Katniss. "I'm not worried because I know that you don't want any additional attention from me upon you and your family. Besides," I say as I key in some commands into the consol built into the table, "there are other factors that will dissuade most people from fleeing Panem, besides the obvious issue of distance for the majority of nations around the world."

The projector in the middle of the table brings up scenes of a picturesque coastline. Rocky shores, lush coniferous forests… and an array of gun emplacements facing out to the sea. Accompanying that is a series of patrol vessels, each one brimming with weaponry.

"This is from the middleman I was mentioning previously. It is a very prosperous nation, and it stays that way because it limits access and enforces those limits. Any unauthorized vessel that enters within ten miles of the shore will find itself fired upon with extreme prejudice. What their gun emplacements don't get, their naval patrols will.

"Same goes for the other nation, to the southeast of District Eleven, that serves as our middleman."

This time, it's a tropical setting, with azure water and sandy beaches. But the defenses are more or less the same.

"Going north, east, or west will lead you to into the wilderness. And assuming you can get past the landmines and desert of the Southern Wilderness, this is what you can look forward to:"

The last footage is in the middle of a city. Or at least, what used to be a city; the term "warzone" would be more accurate. Explosions and gunfire can be heard intermittently. The specific scene is focusing on a group of men, women, and children are lined up against a wall to be gunned down by a firing squad.

To say that the Everdeens are horrified would be an understatement.

"This was taken just last week in our southern neighbor, the Mesoamerican Empire. In this case, it is a group calling itself the Free Nahua Army. They are currently doing some 'housecleaning' against certain undesirables. It is either like this, if not simply crippling poverty or sickness, throughout the 'Empire'. The only thing the inhabitants in Mesoamerica hate more than each other is Panem. Though, from what I hear, they do enjoy watching the Hunger Games, probably out of a bout of _Schadenfreude_ in seeing the children of Panem kill each other.

"In any case, Mesoamerica is what we get to look forward to if this rebellion succeeds. If not this, then it will be a tyranny of a different sort."

"You can't know that for sure," Primrose mutters darkly.

"Yes, yes. There is always the possibility of going back to the free republic system of our forbearer, the UAF and its forbearers, the USA and Canada. But ask yourselves truthfully, how likely do you see that happening? How much do the districts trust each other to prop up a fair and balanced system?"

I take advantage of the looks of uncertainty upon their faces to switch tracks a bit.

"I have to congratulate you Katniss on your interview. I will admit that I had no small amount of trepidation when you mentioned District Thirteen so prematurely, but when you followed up as such, I find quite worth it. I'll also have you know that your assessment of the district is quite accurate."

She narrows her eyes in suspicion, "I know we promised not to lie to each other, but are you sure that you aren't just saying this because Thirteen is your enemy?"

"I'm quite sure because, until just a couple years ago, the Capitol and Thirteen had contact with each other, mostly as a formality. And from what I have seen, the government there is every bit as autocratic as this one is, though in a different way. I am confident that any celebration at my demise will be short-lived if Thirteen is the one holding the reins of power in the end."

Surprisingly this seems to be getting through to Katniss. At the very least, she is mulling the issue over in her head. However, it makes sense when I think about it. I know that she doesn't trust me, but she usually recognizes the pragmatic path whenever it clearly appears to her. And in the end, her goal is always to have those close to her live in a secure setting. If she has to make dealings with people she detests, so be it.

"Well, it looks like everybody is finished with dessert." I look over to Primrose and Ms. Everdeen. "Now if you excuse us, Katniss and I need to discuss business. Your Avox—"

"His name is Darius," Primrose snaps, which earns wide looks of fear from Katniss, her mother, and the Avox.

I just chuckle. In a controlled setting such as this, such youthful exuberance can actually be quite entertaining. It also looks like Katniss' "innocent" little sister has some claws and venom stowed away.

"Darius then," I say, nodding. "He will escort you and your mother to your quarters. Goodnight now."

After they leave, Katniss turns to me in a panic, and with a look of fear still etched onto her face, but raise my hand up before she can say anything.

"Don't worry. So long as your sister does not cause such outburst in public, she has nothing to fear. Though it would be wise for her to practice restraint now so that such a scenario doesn't happen in the future."

This seems to calm her down. "So what do you want to talk to me about?"

"Like I said before, your interview was exemplary. I think we can make some allowances now."

"Let the others go then."

That earns another chuckle and a shake of the head from me. "Now let's not be so hasty. It has just been the first day, and you have not proved _that_ much yet for me to release criminals of the state."

She scowls. "Then what then?"

"Well, since you can't seem to decide on anything that isn't absolutely ridiculous, how about I decide the reward?

"First, if you so choose, you can spend your time in the mansion with your family. You won't have free reign like them but will still be in their company.

"Secondly, your mother and sisters are healers, am I correct?" When Katniss nods, I continue. "I'll give them a chance to work at the main hospital. I'll even ensure that the media is kept away in the process. How do those concessions sound?"

"I think Prim will enjoy that. I think I have one more request, if it doesn't sound unreasonable."

"Ask away. I will be the judge of whether it is reasonable or not."

"I would like to go back to Twelve to pick up some things. Prim's cat is one of them. I personally hate the thing, but it will help keep Prim happy and content."

I think that over. There is a significant risk of her leaving her controlled confines. However…

"I see no issue with that, though it will probably won't be for several days, if not a couple weeks. There will also be an armed escort."

She only hesitates a bit before saying, "Fine."

"Also, there will be a camera crew going along with you."


	5. And Countermoves

"We're gonna need to get you in front of a camera soon. Work your magic as damage control."

"How the hell am I going to be able to control _that_ , Haymitch? Katniss just revealed to everybody just how much of a liar I am. Do you seriously expect people to believe what I say?"

"Well, you are the one who's good with words."

"Well then, I guess that makes _everything_ all easy. I'll just go up there and state, 'Oh Katniss is just a bit addled. So please disregard anything the Mockingjay said and listen to her obsessive, lying sort-of-but-not-really-boyfriend-slash-husband that lies.'"

"Wow. When you put it that way, you really don't come off as such a pleasant person."

"I'M AWARE OF THAT!"

My outburst draws further ire among the officials in Command. Most of them were already displeased with me. But after that interview half-an-hour ago, in which she flat out lambasted Thirteen, they're now looking at me with this collective and contemptuous expression that seethes, _"And you demand that we spare that traitorous bitch…"_

I want to yell at them that their opinion is not warranted. That they shouldn't be treating us like a bunch of assets and nothing more. That maybe Katniss is right about them being just a bunch of opportunistic buzzards. But that will probably give Coin an excuse to dissolve my terms or worse. While at this point I don't care what happens to me, I don't want anybody else hurt due to piss-poor decisions on my part.

So it's best to focus on the task at hand: finding some way of countering the things Katniss said. Something which currently seems about as easy as walking up to Snow and kindly asking him to simply discontinue the Games and treat the districts fairly.

"So tell me Haymitch, do you seriously expect me to challenge her? Because I'm sure that will go over real well."

Haymitch groans and slams his forehead to the table, while muttering obscenities about being stuck with "such damn difficult victors" and his need for a stiff drink. This seems to continue on for the next couple minutes, in which time his muttering fades into silence. He stays silent and still like that, with his head remaining on the table, for such duration of time that I grow concerned that he passed-out or something.

Suddenly, he looks up with a surprisingly clear expression on his face. "No. I don't expect you to challenge her. In fact, I fully expect you to agree with her."

"… What." _I… what._

"What?" Plutarch decides to join us, with Fulvia Cardew, his plump and floral-printed assistant, in tow.

"You all heard me. The boy's right in that attempting to refute Katniss has no guarantee of people believing him. If anything, it could backfire and increase distrust among the districts against all of us.

"That is why he should take what Katniss said and turn it into something sympathetic. Explain why they had to create the lies they did. Hell, even if what he said were lies, there was that kernel of truth in there that resonated with the district residents.

"So no more lies. The time for that is over."

Sometimes, I think Haymich should be the one talking. "That's… a brilliant idea!"

"Yes yes, brilliant… However, Katniss' take on Thirteen will have to be addressed," Plutarch adds, with his voice lowered. "She really portrayed them in a negative manner, and I suspect that many in the districts are going to catch on to that. How is Peeta going to spin that to be positive?"

Haymitch opens and closes his mouth with an expression of frustration. "I… dammit. Boy, you're on your own for that one. Hell, _I_ already don't like this place," he whispers. "The best I can say is that the rebellion is going to need all the help it can get, and that Thirteen has the resources to provide that help."

_Great._

I let out a long puff of air before turning to Plutarch. "If we do an interview now, how long do you think until we're able to broadcast it?"

"We don't know yet. Beetee is currently working on a way to break into the communications' feeds so that we are able to send it to all the districts, plus the Capitol, the same way that the Capitol sends out its broadcasts. So it could be from a couple days to several weeks before we can send anything out.

"Why? Are you saying that you're ready for a propo?" Even though Plutarch's query is phrased in a straightforward manner, I see that he's practically giddy with delight.

It makes me want to strangle him.

I push down that urge. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Record my response right now so that once Beetee's ready, we can get it up as soon as possible."

Plutarch jumps up and claps his hands together. "Excellent news, then! I'll inform Coin, and Fulvia here can get you prepped-up—"

"No."

He stops his little internal celebration to look owlishly at me, "What do you mean no? I thought you said you were ready to get on camera."

"I did, and I do want you to inform Coin. However, I don't want to be prepped for this interview. Later on, you can prep, groom, and dress me up all you want. But not now."

"Peeta, no offense, but you don't look like you are in the best condition to be shown to the public."

I haven't checked a mirror lately, not even when I cleaned myself up before arriving here. But considering how I feel, and how much sleep I've had lately, I probably do look like hell.

"But the point of this is to give a spontaneous response to Katniss' interview and regain the districts' trust. I have to look like I just found out about the news, not like I have been preparing a response for however long it takes to release the footage."

Haymitch chimes in. "True. If anything, the more ragged he looks, the better; play on audience sympathy. Besides, you should have seen him before he got washed. Boy made Annie look like a paragon of keeping oneself together."

That earns a grimace from me. _Thanks, Haymitch…_

Fulvia looks like she's about to vomit at my desire to keep the way I'm looking, but fortunately, Plutarch looks thoughtful, especially after the "play on audience sympathy" bit.

Finally, he simply shrugs. "Just as well. We have yet to get your outfit, or your title for that matter, ready. In which case, Fulvia will direct you to the studio, where the crew will be waiting for you. Cressida will take care of you from there."

_Outfit? Title? Never mind, I'll ask about that later._

Despite her displeasure at the turn of events, Fulvia beckons me to follow her. For once, I'm thankful to have the wheelchair because she is walking at the briskest pace possible. Several floors later, and an indeterminate distance of hallway, we finally arrive at our destination.

I can tell that the group that awaits me is definitely from the Capitol, though from what I've seen so far, they look perfectly modest. The one women there has a shaved head with intertwining vines tattooed onto her scalp. She's talking to a lanky guy who's covered in piercings, while two identically-burly-and-red-bearded guys are off to the side by the cameras.

Upon seeing me, the woman approaches me to shake my hand. I myself hobble outside of the wheelchair to receive her handshake.

"Hi! It's great to meet you, Peeta. I'm Cressida," she says in a voice that thankfully lacks the annoying lilt that I've come to associate with residents of the Capitol. "My assistant here is Messalla, and these are my two cameramen, Castor and Pollux." The other three wave good-naturedly at me. Seem like decent enough folk.

"It's good to meet you all as well. Though," I nod towards the cameramen, "no offense, but how should I tell you two apart? Since we are working together, I'd like to get to know everybody better."

One of them approaches me. "No offense taken. I'm Castor, and, as you may guess, Pollux is my brother. As for telling us apart, he's the Avox."

"Oh." And now I suddenly feel very uneasy. "I—I'm sorry."

Pollux shrugs in a "no big deal" kind of manner and then makes some signs to Castor, who just sighs. "Pollux wanted me to add that another way to tell us apart is that he's not the one who bites his fingernails to the nub."

That comment, and ensuing laughter from everybody else, fortunately diffuses any hint of awkwardness that may have formed. I definitely think I can get along with these people.

Cressida takes the opportunity to guide me to a stage where a chair and a couch are set up. I'm seated on the sofa, while she settles into the chair. It is nowhere near the luxuriousness of Caesar's set-up, but comfortable enough. The one big difference from the Game interviews is that there is no large crowd to play to; instead, the footage will be directed straight to Command, where the higher-ups will view it. While there is the upshot of not having a bunch of Capitol residents spew their vapid histrionics, I still find that an audience is useful in that it helps me gauge my own performance via their reactions.

Plutarch apparently informed the crew, while I was en route, as to what type of footage would be recorded. So they managed to somewhat prepare ahead of time, which I suspect didn't take much considering that this is supposed to be a straightforward interview. Though I wonder as to what questions Cressida will bring up.

We're informed that it will be a while until everybody will be ready in Command; in the meantime, Cressida and I engage in small-talk to get to know each other better. She half-jokes that since I was the one who has been on television all this time, and that I'm about to go through another interview, it'd be best that I be interviewer as we wait. So, for the most part, things are idle chit-chat: what schooling she had — "Journalism from University of Panem." — what the vines mean — "I like gardening." — whether they stop past the neck — "No." — how easy it is to get lost in Thirteen — "Very." — and so on. That is, until I ask her how she got involved with the Rebellion.

It turns out that Cressida was, and still is, the adventurous type. So while many of her classmates wanted to be anchors or talk show hosts, she wanted to be a field reporter. At first, there was no "noble" reason for it; she just wanted to travel around and see different things from the Capitol. However, the more she traveled, the more she was unable ignore the conditions around her, especially when going to places like Six, Eight, and Eleven. Though, if anything, probably the final nail in the coffin was meeting Castor and finding about Pollux, especially the process at which a person is Avoxed.

I, perhaps naively, ask what that process is. I wish I hadn't.

As to how Cressida and her crew ended up in Thirteen: it turns out that being a high-ranking reporter meant being able to get a peek into the more clandestine aspects of Panem. One of them was the fact that any reporting done from "Thirteen" was actually done in a studio where the simply add in the same stock footage of the smoking rubble. So she put the pieces together and figured out that the district wasn't as dead as it should be. Wisely, she kept her mouth shut about Thirteen or her feelings about Panem, which allowed her to climb the ranks, gain resources, and appoint the people she wanted. When she got the group of people that she trusted, the decision was made to head out. Fortunately, it turns out that Messalla, who was just her intern at the time, was an outdoor survival enthusiast, which helped them in their trek from Six to Thirteen.

"So here I am," she says, gesturing to our surroundings.

"Huh."

"What? You seemed puzzled about something."

"I just notice that you never mentioned the Hunger Games in your reasons for leaving the Capitol."

A thoughtful look crosses her face. "I didn't care for them, if that's what you're asking. But, I wouldn't exactly say that they were exactly a primary, or even secondary, concern of mine. Not to diminish your experiences, which is something I myself can't comprehend, but after seeing some of the things I have seen in the districts, the Hunger Games actually appear quite mild."

"I know about the brutality in Eleven. But what else have you seen, if it's not too much trouble to explain?"

"It's not. But are you sure you want to know?"

"I think I need to know if I'm going take responsibility."

"Okay then." She takes a deep breath. "In Eight, I saw a seven-year-old girl scavenging under some heavy machinery."

"'Scavenging'?"

"It's where they remove any stray piece of cotton or other raw material that the machinery may have missed so that nothing is wasted. Due to the limited space, they require the smallest person to do the task, which is why very young children are drafted.

"Anyways, the girl was not vigilant enough, and her hair got caught in the whirling parts of the machine. She was completely scalped."

I suddenly feel very nauseous. "Did she survive?"

"I don't know. I just remember the screaming.

"In Six, I saw the strong preying on the weak, as well as the trafficking of various goods, some of them human; all the while as corrupt Peacekeepers looked the other way. In Three, I saw the callous indifference of residents as the dead, or those too weak to resist, were eaten by mutts to keep the streets clean.

"And in certain places, I saw how many kids wouldn't object if they were sent to the Hunger Games because it meant that they would get to eat a full meal. They usually would actually plan on going to the bloodbath as dying there was usually preferable to attempting to keep surviving, wherever they were.

"That's just skimming the surface of many things in that I have witnessed in the districts; of course, I had to keep my mouth shut or my job would be the least of my concerns. It made it all the more worse when I would return back to the Capitol and see many people who I considered my friends, many of whom always talked about helping out the districts, gorging themselves on excess." She ends on a bitter note.

Just skimming the surface? This is worse than I thought. And they seriously expect some seventeen-year-old to motivate a nation that looks like it is more likely to collapse in on itself? What am I getting myself into?

Cressida seems to sense my anxiety, because she squeezes my shoulder. "Don't worry. While, you may not like to hear it, and I wish it weren't true, after a while it becomes easier to deal with. We'll do our best to help you in any way we can."

I give her a small smile of appreciation before we are told that everybody who needs to be in Command is there.

"Okay, you ready for this, Peeta?"

"Might as well get it over with." This earns an approving chuckle from her.

Since the idea is to create an answer to Kantiss' rhetoric, we decide to go along the same format of Caesar's interview, yet in a different manner. So after the basic introductions, we go to the subject of the Games.

"It's clear that you really cared for Katniss out there."

"Was it that obvious?" I sheepishly grin.

"If not before, I think that night on the beach was a pretty strong confirmation for everybody."

I feel the heat rising to my face. "Well, passion of the moment and all that," I say dismissively. The guys working to the side snicker a bit, which causes my face to heat up even more. I really hope they edit that out, though I doubt that will happen.

"In any case, as you probably suspected, my goal once in the arena was to help keep her alive." I look straight into the camera and sigh, "Yeah yeah, Katniss, and it usually ended up with you taking care of me.

"Anyways, that goal served as a tether. Because once you are in the arena, it becomes something that threatens to be your only reality; be it the terrain, your base needs, or the other tributes after you. The arena threatens to consume you."

"As in the risk of you being killed?"

"Actually, I sometimes feel that the ones who died are the lucky ones."

"For what reason?"

"When you kill someone, even if it's the most necessary thing in the world, you feel a part of yourself slipping away. It even happens when you aren't doing the killing but are personally watching it unfold before you. If you're not careful, you risk losing everything you are, and a person who has lost everything they are… it is as if they weren't a person in the first place. Besides the basic life signs, the only sign you may see of their former humanity are the internal screams that occasionally peak out from their eyes.

"So the only thing you can really do is latch onto a goal to keep from going mad. To serve as that lifeline to the world outside, even if in the end you aren't even planning to go back to that world. For most people, that goal is understandably to stay alive. For me, well, you already know what my goal was. Because if Katniss were to die, I would be nothing. And, like I said before, what life is worth living when there is no meaning attached to it?"

"What about Haymitch, your mentor?"

"He should have not been as secretive as he was. I know that his plan was to hold both of our promise, to motive us to protect each other. But if we had at least a good hint about what was going to happen, we probably wouldn't have separated. I wouldn't have let her out of my sight, and she would probably be here with me."

I allow my voice to crack and the tears to fall, but, at the same time, have to restrain myself so that it doesn't devolve into full-on sobbing.

I have forgiven Haymitch already, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let him off so easily. And as bad as it sounds, this will hopefully redirect some of that anger away from Katniss over to him, who's used to being hated. I also hope that Coin doesn't catch it, but I refrain from saying anything that hints at Katniss hating the Capitol; she needs to stay sympathetic there if she is to survive.

Cressida gives me some time to compose myself before she continues on.

"If it is not too upsetting, was what Katniss said about the marriage being a lie true?"

"I'm afraid so. I will flat-out say that I've, for a long time, always wanted to marry Katniss. But not like this. However, that's what we had to do."

"What do you mean that you had to marry?"

"Snow personally threatened Katniss with the lives of those she held dear if she did not play-up the 'Star-Crossed Lovers' theme to distract the districts so we did. So we did what we could to keep others safe, hence the engagement. Unsurprisingly, things didn't go as planned."

"That would likely be an understatement. Where does the 'baby' fit in?"

"Like she said, I wanted to rile people up. Thing is, I wouldn't exactly call what I said a lie."

"Oh?"

"I mean, Katniss isn't pregnant. However, how many potential babies out there are snuffed out whenever a kid dies in the Games? More importantly, how many expectant parents look fearfully at the new developing life and wonder, 'Will this child grow up only to be reaped and die young in a bloodbath for some sick game? A game that's supposed to punish us for something we weren't even alive for? A game for the enjoyment of a populace that can look at its own expectant mothers and just see another crop of happy children, while our children starve?'

"When I said, 'If it wasn't for the baby', I wasn't just speaking for me and Katniss, I was speaking for Panem."

"And I'm sure the districts got that message. On that subject, what are your thoughts on the war? On Katniss being the Mockingjay."

"Like Katniss said, she never asked to be a symbol. However, she just has no clue the effect she can have on people. Even I don't really understand it."

"How about her words about District Thirteen?"

Okay this is where I definitely can't afford to screw up. I'm pretty sure Coin is paying close attention to me right now.

"I can't give any impression about that since I just got here, though my reception so far has been nothing but positive."

I know we said no more lies, but I can't seriously say that my first couple hours here consisted of mean looks and Coin threatening unpleasantness should I step out of line.

"The districts probably have realized this already, but I still think it is worth saying: There won't be any second chances after this fight. Even for those who willingly surrender, the Capitol will show you no mercy. And as the Quarter Quells prove, there can always be worse things brought out than the Hunger Games."

I decide to look straight into the camera once more, this time to address all the districts. "I don't look forward to war. If you probably have guessed from my Games, I hate any aspect of killing. However, we're currently past the point of no return.

"So whether you care for Thirteen or not is irrelevant. What is relevant is that Thirteen has resources for a war. And in a fight like this, you're going to need all the resources you can get your hands on if we want to end this now and end it quickly.

"Besides, I myself am a firm believer in second chances. Thirteen may have withdrew during the First Rebellion, but they are now pitching in for the fight, knowing full well that if this war is lost, the Capitol will not be so willing to parlay. I say that we should allow them to prove themselves. Because, we all know who _has_ been given a ton of chances to be kind towards the districts and squandered it.

"Remember, who is the one who sends Peacekeepers to your doorsteps to inflict various forms of brutality upon you and your neighbors? Who is the one who lets you starve, while his citizens gorge and purge themselves in a display of excess? Who is the one who keeps you from moving around and works you without fair recompense? Who is the one who hosts the Hunger Games and has the blood of a multitude of children on his hands?"

I then allow all that pent-up frustration and anger to carry me on through to the finish.

"Remember, who is the real enemy out there?"

After that, silence seems to grip the set for eternity. As my internal fire ebbs away, I fear that I completely screwed this up.

Finally Cressida says, "Cut!"

I collapse into my chair and look plaintively at her. "Alright, how bad was it?"

She looks positively incredulous when I ask that. "Bad?"

The next thing I hear is Coin's authoritative voice over the intercom. She sounds completely and utterly… pleased?

"Soldier Mellark, it appears my faith in your abilities was well-founded. Congratulations, you're officially our voice for the Rebellion."


	6. Game On

After the crew gives me substantial amounts of time to collect my wits, I head back to Command as Coin tells me that she wants be up there to review the footage. When I finally get there, I can see that all that ill-will has dissipated when those same higher-ups mob me to give congratulatory pats on the back while Coin looks on approvingly. Plutarch looks positively ecstatic, and even Fulvia has a grudging look of acceptance on her face.

The only person who isn't going wild is Haymitch. All he does, after everybody else has settled down, is come over and silently squeezes my shoulder. An understanding passes between us, and for the first time in quite a while, I feel thankful for his presence.

When the footage plays, I try not to recoil in disgust.

Even after the interview, I did not have time to look at a mirror. But after seeing this, now I can understand why Plutarch wanted to pretty me up, even though I still stand by my previous stance of staying unaltered.

My hair is frayed and laying limply. Dark shadows frame my sunken eyes. The marks on my face from the poison fog have not completely faded away yet. And even though we had those meals in the arena, it's still clear that I lost a considerable amount of weight. The only thing I have going for me, physically, is that I managed to have gotten a slight tan from being out there.

This is either going to succeed in gaining audience sympathy… or I'm going to give every little kid in Panem nightmares. Or both.

After we finish watching, there is an ovation and Plutarch talks about how, "after some adjustments, of course", this should help rally the people. Personally, I also care about whether this takes the attention off Katniss.

~oOo~

So now just comes the wait as Beetee figures out a way to hack the Capitol.

Once the good feelings over my interview pass, everybody goes back to working. Haymitch and Plutarch mostly stay in Command to focus on the strategic meetings. While I don't attend them all, I have a general idea of how things are going considering how increasingly surly he is when I come across him. Or it could just be the lack of booze talking.

Chaff is handling the no-alcohol rule just about as well as Haymitch. That is, not well at all. In fact, most people try to avoid him the best they can as he tends to be on the warpath a good chunk of the time. We decide that it be best that he put most of his efforts into more training. Fortunately, he doesn't object and ends up excelling in it, even when missing a hand.

Gale is also getting into military training. Actually, he's launching into it with a single-minded focus that is borderline frightening. Though this is tempered somewhat at the sight of him uncomfortable in his crew cut and strictly-regulated uniform.

In contrast, Hazelle is helping out at the kitchen, with Rory looking after the rest of the kids when she's not there.

That leaves me. The funny thing is that I'm not allowed any combat training. Not that I'm complaining, but Coin seems insistent that I be an orator, not a fighter.  _Ah well, might as well focus on what I'm best at._

So I spend all my time preparing to be this "Voice of the Rebellion." A lot of it involves practicing in front of a camera with Cressida and her crew.

I also end up dedicating most of my time researching about Panem; because if I am going rally the districts, I'm going to need to know my audience. Fortunately it turns out that Thirteen has a sizable library I can work out of. After a while, they even have the scheduler even puts down  _Research_  as a legitimate activity. I proceed to have them spill it into my regular  _Reflection_  time.

"Seriously boy, how much sleep are you getting doing all of this?"

"How much sleep do you think I usually get?" I look at Haymitch pointedly, an unspoken implication traveling between victors.

"Okay, okay. Fair point. Just be careful. You're little use to anybody if you turn into some burnt-out husk."

Plutarch actually decides to help me with the research. Despite my general distrust towards him, he does prove himself to be very informative, which is something I'm thankful for. Part of it is due to him being an insider in the higher echelons of the Capitol, and another part is due to his knowledge and fascination about history and geography.

"Since I had no restrictions put on me," he explains to me over a stack of books, "my idea of fun was to take frequent trips to the Capitol Archives. It's actually amazing how many people are able to look at our history but choose not to exercise that privilege. Probably one of the reasons the Capitol is the way it is.

"Anyway, besides looking at various resources, it was common for me to get into discussions and debates with the head archivist. Decent fellow, though a bit aloof and prickly; he's also quite aware of the Rebellion and was aware of my part in it for some time."

"Huh. What's he doing to help?" I ask. It always interests me to hear about higher-ups in the Capitol who aren't in league with Snow.

"Nothing at all."

"Really? I mean, considering that you aren't dead must mean that he's not in league with Snow."

"Oh, Suetonius isn't on Snow's side either. When I say that he's doing nothing, that's exactly what I am saying. He has the information; he just is deciding not to do anything with it except store it for the sake of knowledge. While he has no love for Snow, he doesn't trust revolutionaries at all either. And he considers himself indispensable enough that he should survive any government that comes into being. If he no longer has that luxury, he knows how to go into hiding."

I really don't know what to think about that. I mean, it's good that he's not ratting out the Rebellion. But to know what's going on and willfully turning one's back on it out of self-preservation sound callous. Then, again, considering what we were trying to do during the Victory Tour, I don't really have any room to throw stones.

With the material given, I find out a wealth of information about Panem and the districts that isn't usually taught, especially stuff that concerns their industries.

Some is pretty trivial information and makes sense in hindsight. Six focuses on heavy manufacturing and steel, not just transportation. Nine is where we get dairy products. Three doesn't just do electronics but focuses on research and development in general, including genetic work for Nine, Ten, and Eleven.

Some is a bit more relevant to the current situation, such as Eight's fabrication of Peacekeeper uniforms, Two's manufacturing of weaponry, and Three's designs of said weaponry.

And then some information leaves me completely flabbergasted.

Starting with the fact that there are actually other nations out there, though way less than before the Great Cataclysm, which runs contrary to everything I was taught. And they trade with the Capitol, through Four and Eleven. Of course, that's on hiatus considering both districts are currently rebelling.

"Why don't we ask these countries to help us?" I ask while looking at current map of the world.

Plutarch snorts. "In all seriousness, what do we have to offer? Most countries out there already have a tenuous relationship with Panem. They aren't going to risk their trade deals to unilaterally support a rebellion that may or may not succeed."

"Well, we would have a better chance at succeeding if we had help."

"But it does not mean that victory is ensured. Not to mention that our two friendly neighbors already have in place a policy of strict neutrality, while our southern neighbor believes that the only good Panemian is a dead Panemian.

"I wouldn't fret too much though. Those countries that already have a working relationship with Panem will not object to a regime change, which should help us during the rebuilding process."

Somehow, I find that of very little solace right now.

Moving on from that tidbit, I then find out that most Peacekeepers aren't from the Capitol, but actually are from Two. In retrospect, that makes plenty of sense; many Capitolites aren't exactly the type to don a uniform, and most Capitolite Peacekeepers are there because of debt issues. In contrast, Two already has the Career system in place; makes sense that they would extend that mentality to include service into the Peacekeeper Corps.

In fact, the defense headquarters for Panem are built right into one of the mountains, just with proximity to their Justice Building.

"To think that I just thought it to be a very fancy mine…" I muse.

"With a statue like that?" Plutarch is probably referring to the massive statue next to the square that depicts a man and woman holding aloft a sword.

"It isn't to commemorate the victors from the Games?"

"It has that function," he concedes, "and the Academy is located nearby as well. However, the statue predates the Games and is to showcase Two's overall martial and honor-based spirit."

I think to Clove and Cato. "Honorable" isn't exactly a word I'd use to define them. Though I also remember their public rhetoric about bringing honor through victory. So… yeah.

In any case, Plutarch notes that the facility is probably the main priority besides the Capitol itself. It doesn't help that Two is the only district not actually rebelling, even when both One and Four have joined the rebellion. It's that tied to the Capitol.

Plutarch looks at me gravely. "And I doubt that anything you say will sway them."

I remember the looks the people gave me during the Victory Tour. The hatred emanating from the parents. I completely deceived the Careers, something which I doubt they consider very honorable as well, and to top it off, I showed Katniss where to shoot Cato before knocking him off the Cornucopia. "I guess not. I still wish there was another way besides just fighting our way through."

"All of us do. Not least because that mountain is going to be one very tough nut to crack."

The last important secret concerns the Capitol Labs. They aren't in the Capitol. They're in Three.

"Well to be fair," Plutarch clarifies, "there is a branch in the Capitol that specifically focuses on applying the technology. But other than that, everything is located in Central."

Central is both the site of Three's Justice Building and the headquarters for the labs. The funny thing is that I visited the place and didn't find anything that odd.

"That's because the Capitol hides that fact during major broadcasts, such as during reapings or Victory Tours. Can't have people get any ideas about autonomous entities. Have you ever wondered why there were a lot more banners with the Capitol seal on them than in other districts that you visited during your Victory Tour?"

I shake my head as that has never occurred to me. I just assumed that it was to quell the restlessness among the populace.

Plutarch brings out a picture. "Well. This is what it looks like without the banners."

In it, I can see buildings emblazoned with a symbol that distinct from the Capitol's eagle and even more bizarre than Thirteen's hand. It's some sort of winged, stylized creature spread out in the same way as the eagle, but that's where the similarities end. The head is of a horned beast, and instead of legs, the body tapers into a tail which ends in a draconic head. Overall, the way the lines are drawn suggests a mixture of nature and machine, and the creature holds a drawing compass in one hand and a sun in the other.  

"It's a Chimera," says Plutarch.

"What does it represent?"

"Mastery over all elements, as well as power and ingenuity to create something new. On a less esoteric note, it represents their main vocation: research and development," he explains. "Anyways, besides covering those designs up, the Capitol goes so far as to bring in people from the rest of Three to serve as the crowd for Victory Tours, which explains why the ones you saw were restless. Restlessness is something you will never see from a Central resident; the Rebellion is just not their problem."

Plutarch goes on to explain that, despite Three's firm anti-Capitol stance, Central's currently neutral. They refuse to join the rebels until after the Capitol falls. And the rebels aren't going to force the issue. Part of it is out of fear of damaging valuable assets which may be useful later on. The other part is due to how the place is surrounded in all directions by miles of hilly terrain, wide valleys, and dense forest. If the landscape won't stymie an invading force, the active defenses will.

Pretty much the only way to capture the place would be to destroy it, which defeats the whole purpose. That's even not getting into the subject of the soldiers there.

"Oh yes, I forgot to mention: those Peacekeepers you saw during the Tour were also temporary imports from the rest of District Three. The actual 'Peacekeepers' there are an… unorthodox bunch."

"In what way?"

"Let's just say you'll know if you meet one. Not to mention that their training, besides imparting combat and survival skills, serves as a 'deprogramming' mechanism to eliminate blind obedience and excessive focus on Two's honor philosophy."

"They don't believe in honor?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way. They value traits that would be honorable, and it's not like they consider 'honor' a bad word. However, for them, obsessing over honor for honor's sake is potentially self-destructive. In any case, probably the most important distinction about them is that they aren't there to enforce Capitol doctrine."

"Okay that's… very different." Even with the decent guys like Darius, the reason the Peacekeepers were there was so that we stayed in line.

"Well, it comes with the territory, and the indispensable nature of the community and its inhabitants. It's why that the security force there actually refers to themselves as the Guardian Corps, not Peacekeepers. The whole thing was the brainchild of Commander Porus, who's still in charge there. I believe you met her on the Tour."

If he's talking about whom I think he's talking about, then yeah I have. And I don't wish to again.

"The first thing she said to me was, 'I hope you two don't decide to cause the same mess you caused in Eleven, otherwise you will wish you had died in the arena.'"

My muttered recollection causes Plutarch to chuckle. "Yeah, that's Porus for you. She hates it whenever they bring in the crowds and imported Peacekeepers. The last Tour was especially worrisome considering how volatile things were. Not a good situation for such a community," he notes. "Still, in return for not messing with them, Central is refusing to send any of their troops confront Thirteen or any rebel force. They will even forgo attacking us if we manage to secure the transport line so long as we don't attempt to enter their community."

I narrow my eyes at that. "Not that I'm complaining, but that seems awfully generous of them."

"Well, even though they're still recruited from Two, the Guardians aren't loyal to the Capitol or even Panem. They are loyal to Central, and by extension, Porus. And she doesn't want to risk Central's prosperity, or lives of her troops, over a 'hissy fit between peasants and aristocrats'."

 _Strange way of referring to the Rebellion._ "Why does Snow tolerate them then? Everything I know about him shows that he doesn't tolerate anything less than unwavering loyalty or at least fear."

"It goes back to Central's indispensability and the fact they keep it safe. As long as they don't cause any trouble and keep out of sight, Snow is willing to look the other way. Of course, if Snow does manage to stay in power, I'd imagine that he may reconsider how much autonomy from them he will tolerate."

"There is still the issue of them supplying equipment and mutts to the Capitol. And from what it look like here, Central serves as a depot for hovercraft and Peacekeepers to stop at on their way east."

Plutarch simply shrugs at that. "The best we can do try to block their supply lines. Since it's not involving their own personnel, they won't object to us stopping shipments."

I mull over something that was said earlier. "What did you mean when you said that the Guardians are eccentric?"

"Well, I would probably apply that to most of the populace there, soldier and scientist alike. I can't explain it clearly, but if by some inexplicable reason you are there, you'll notice it. The only thing I can say is that it probably comes with what usually goes on over there.

"But this is all irrelevant considering that there is no way one can get Central on our side, be it through persuasion or force. As far as this war is concerned, that place is a non-entity to be ignored and avoided."

"There isn't even a way to persuade them on pragmatic grounds?"

"Believe me: before the war started, we tried various arguments when we knew that Porus wouldn't rat us out. She told us that if we pressed the issue, she'd have us walk back to the Capitol on foot." He shudders at that. "If you manage to find a way to convince her, go for it. But I'm not holding my breath."

As productive as having them as an ally would be, the thought of having to confront that woman washes away any ideas I may have had.

Anyways, if there is one district that I do not have a good amount of information on, it is Thirteen. The only thing I know is that its official vocation was graphite, the unofficial one was nuclear research, and that it made a deal with the Capitol to be spared. Other than that, I'm at a loss, and Coin says it's not important for me to know anything as they aren't the ones needing persuading. Which does nothing to allay my suspicions about the place.

I take the time to attempt, and fail at, organizing the mass of books I have before chuckling to myself over some inane thought.

"So the Capitol forces are based in Two, the Capitol labs are mostly in Three, and Capitol lands just refer to uninhabited parts of the various districts. Is there anything that actually part of the Capitol?"

"Well there is the Capitol proper. That stretch of land, which surrounds the city, serves as a buffer and is where we construct all of the arenas. Also, when you think about it, all of Panem technically belongs to the Capitol."

"And we're trying to change that."

"Exactly."

~oOo~

It's been almost a month in when another Capitol propo is broadcasted. This time, it's from Twelve.

The town looks almost unrecognizable. Peacekeepers are everywhere, and I can even see walls and various buildings being built in the background, with district residents, Merchant and Seam alike, providing the labor for construction.

From what I hear from the rest of Command, the Capitol is turning Twelve into a regional command post of its own, undoubtedly to prepare for a push towards Thirteen. Unfortunately, the defenses are high and the populace unprepared for conflict to come there. Though there is word of an underground movement forming amongst the residents and even some disaffected Peacekeepers; likely from the remaining old guard who managed to keep a low profile. In fact, it is from this movement that we have the information that we have.

We are all watching the video when _she_ appears.

This time there is no interview, just footage of Katniss going into her house and picking up some stuff. When she walks out, I see that she has her old hunting jacket and is carrying a couple bags with her. One of the bags seems to be swaying angrily, and I fight to stifle a laugh as I realize what's in it.

After handing the bags over to a Peacekeeper, she decides to walk around Twelve, with the cameras following her. Though she will occasionally point out a sight or two, the camera is mostly ignored. Fortunately, she pointedly avoids the bakery; I don't think I can bear seeing that yet.

Along the way, she stops to talk to various people just to see how they are. While they are not pleased with the situation, they are fortunately not looking at her with the same amount of betrayal Thirteen views her with. They understand that she's doing this to survive.

There is really only one time she actually looks straight into the camera. It's to address me.

"Peeta, if you are watching this, I hope you don't mind if I borrow something of yours."

She then proceeds to go into my house and comes out with one of my paintings; however, with its back to the camera, I can't see which one it is.

Finally they leave and the propo ends.

Some are questioning as to exactly what purpose there was behind that propo, but I understand perfectly.

And with that understanding, I know exactly what I must do. Because interviews only go so far.

Though not everybody seems to be accepting of my proposal.

"You know, I have always considered you the sane victor. Absurdly love-obsessed sure, but sane. After what you've just suggested though, I've realized that I may have set the bar a bit too low."

I scowl at Haymitch. "I don't see what the issue with my idea is."

"Oh let's see. How about the fact that, oh I dunno, you will be killed out there? If this was Katniss, I may probably have been open to it, as getting out into the fight's her forte. You on the other hand…

"You were useless as it is in the arena — don't try to deny it — even when both of your legs worked. Now, you might as well use those painting skills of yours to put a bull's-eye on your shirt while you scream out to the Peacekeepers 'HEY, FREE TARGET PRACTICE!'" He jumps up and down while waving his hands around for emphasis.

My scowl deepens to Katniss-levels of disapproval.

I don't see what Haymitch's problem is. Once we got to Thirteen, their technicians actually managed to fix the leg most of the way. Granted it would seize up or give out occasionally, but most of the time I'm able to walk, and even run at full speed, easily again. Beetee even said I was lucky as in some cases, when advanced prosthetics like mine malfunction, they have been known to send a feedback up the nerve connections and into the body; I didn't ask for him to elaborate on the detail of those incidents.

Also while I may not be a fighter, I do know how to survive. At the very least, I know when there is danger and how to get out of its way. And this time, I'll be surrounded by those who I know are friendly faces.

Coin decides to chime in. "Despite his penchant for hyperbole, I'm inclined to agree with Soldier Abernathy. You are too valuable of an asset to risk in a warzone, and it's a drain of resources to risk soldiers just so for the sake of your voyeurism."

"It's not voyeurism." I address no one in particular. "Do you know why Snow filmed Katniss going to Twelve?"

"Well, they needed to show an obedient district. Show that the Capitol can be gracious as it is unforgiving," Plutarch says.

"Yes, but they could have done that without Katniss. So why include her?"

Haymitch sighs. "Because they needed a face."

"Exactly. A face to accompany a message is usually more comforting than just plain narrated footage. And a face mingling unafraid, and genuinely affable, amongst the populace is a face people tend to trust more than a face always seen in the confines of a studio. Hell, this may be the only time she does this, but it's enough to leave an impression.

"If I am to be a credible face to the Rebellion, I can't solely give speeches from the comfort of Thirteen. Doing so would give the impression that I'm cowardly which, in the end, erodes away my legitimacy. And from there, said eroded legitimacy reflects badly on Thirteen.

"Besides," I say, focusing on Coin, "think of it this way: if I'm successful at this, you'll have a propo that will blow my previous one out of the water. If I get killed… you'll have a martyr that will spur the people on."

Plutarch seems unsure, Haymtich's understandably pissed about the last suggestion, but Coin looks thoughtful. I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not that she got the impression only when I mentioned the win-win scenario; however, if the results are positive, I'll take what I can get.

Finally, she says, "Let me think this over, and I'll let you know in due time. Meanwhile, you should get cleaned-up. Whether the next propo is here or in the field, I'd rather our main performer not look like a walking corpse."

Plutarch beckons me to follow him, and as we leave, I hear Haymitch yelling at her not to let me go out there.

"You are quite the master of persuasion," Plutarch muses as we're walking down the halls.

"I just want to get this done as soon as possible."

"As do we all. By the way, I was supposed to show this to you earlier, but I never got the time." He pulls out a tablet and hands it to me.

In it are several costume designs. It is only when I get to my first chariot outfit, and the suit that I wore during my first interview with Ceasar, that I realize that this is Portia's personal design book. There is even the secret behind the synthetic flame here; she always did seem to be the more tech-oriented of the two stylists.

Plutarch instructs me to select a specific page, which brings up a new design.

As I'm looking it over, I ask, "So what is this?"

"This is your Rebellion costume."

Truth be told, I expected something a bit more dramatic, like armor… or me being on fire again. This outfit looks like a simple hybrid between a coat and a robe: black, with straight lines, long sleeves, and a hem that goes past the knees.

"As can be seen she decided to make the design that has some connection in both your skill and your district."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's modeled after a preacher's outfit, around seven hundred years ago. Preachers were some of the great Appalachian orators at that time."

"Huh…" I really didn't know much about the time before Panem — actually didn't know much about Panem's history till recently — except that the nation used to be called the United States of America, later the United American Federation, Twelve was a region known as Appalachia, and the Great Cataclysm killed a lot of people.

In any case, Portia seems to have done her research, and next to the sketches, there's even an old reference photo of whom I assume is preacher; he has a nice hat.

"Is this all?" There is no disappointment or the sort in my tone, just puzzlement. After all the outfits I have been through, it seems strange that the most important one of all was a single article of clothing – albeit a very long and well-made one – not an entire ensemble.

"She wanted to allow you some flexibility, so you can wear anything you like underneath. Of course, black pants and shoes are supposed to compliment it the best. And she designed some to the side." I signal for a new page, which shows me a set of pants and boots. They are thankfully designed more for comfort and utility than for style, though they aren't lacking in that department either.

"When this is all being made?"

"Actually, they are just putting on the finishing touches."

 _So Portia…_ "Portia was part of the Rebellion…"

"As was Cinna. Both of them had special outfits planned for each of you two."

In hindsight, it makes sense considering the outfits made for us during the Quell, especially Katniss' wedding/mockingjay dress. "Do you where they are now?"

"Last I heard, she is currently Katniss' stylist. Your former prep team is also in charge of taking care of her."

That catches me off guard. "What about Cinna?"

Plutarch, for once, looks solemn. "Cinna's dead."

He explains how Cinna was beaten and tortured to death, starting right before Katniss went up the launch tube during the Quell. Which explains why she was so shaken during the countdown.

"Do you know about her prep team?" I ask shakily. They were vapid and shallow ditzes that bought into the Capitol's decadence but, like my own trio, really can't be faulted too much for their attitudes. They were merely symptoms of a greater problem.

"How about you ask them yourself," Plutarch says wryly.

~o~

As I'm remade to "Beauty Base Zero", I'm also busy trying to comfort the prep team. All the while, I find myself liking and trusting Thirteen even less than before.

I think Plutarch meant to surprise me with some friendly faces. What we got instead was the sight of Venia, Octavia, and Flavius chained, bruised, and sitting in their own waste. All just because they hoarded some food. From the appalled look on Plutarch's face, he was not informed as to their condition, and his subsequent threats towards the guard to release them gained my respect.

Fortunately, Venia seems the least affected of the trio and helps me keep them from completely breaking down. Also their constant concern over my current physical condition, as well as inquiries about Katniss serves as a successful distraction. After they are done, I tell them to come to me, Plutarch, or any one of the other victors if they have any more problems.

"I'd suggest sticking around the Hawthornes while you stay here."

"Okay. Though Katniss' cousin looks angry all the time," Octavia whispers.

 _I guess they didn't see the interview._ I decide not to correct them right now. "Yeah, Gale's a bit of a firebrand. But the rest of them shouldn't be too much problem. I bet his little sister Posy will let you three play with her hair."

That seems to brighten up their day a bit. After they hug me — very awkward while I'm currently stark naked — and leave, I get dressed and finally check a mirror.

While I still look somewhat strained, they managed to have erased the dark circles from my eyes, trim my hair and restore its curl, and overall get my complexion polished up. I suspect that I'll look like a mess again after a couple weeks, but they might as well fix me up now. I also regained much of my weight back due to the consistent intake of food — a generous term — plus some regular exercises on the side.

When I get out of the Remake Center, I see Plutarch is still waiting outside on me.

"I want to thank you for getting them out of there. I know we don't see eye-to-eye on many things, but that meant a lot."

He waves me off airily. "It's nothing. Nobody should be treated like that for something so trivial. Not in the Capitol. Not in Thirteen."

There is a note of finality to his statement that suggests talking here about Thirteen is not the wisest course of action. So I change subjects

"By the way, besides the outfit, you mentioned earlier that I was supposed to have some sort of title."

That earns a grin on his face. "Ah yes. I think you will find out about that later today."

 _Aand there's the Plutarch I love to hate._ "So you just assigned some sort of alias without my input?"

"I think you'll find that the best titles have never been self-assigned. After today, we'll see if it sticks.

"Oh, and before you go on your merry way, Beetee wants to speak with you in Special Weapons."

~o~

As usual, I find him in the hummingbird house. When he's not working on something, he's being completely enthralled by those small creatures. Something about wanting to replicate their flight movements.

As I walk in, he beams at me. "Peeta! Just the guy I want to see. Looking better by the way."

"Thanks. I just got the tribute treatment. Anyways, Plutarch said you wanted to speak with me?"

"I do indeed. I have wonderful news!"

"Really? I could definitely use something positive." I really could.

"Well, I finally got through to the Capitol's communication system."

So that's what Plutarch meant. That propo's probably going to air anytime now.

"That's great!" I exclaim. "How'd you do it?"

Just as Beetee launches into his explanation, a particularly-feisty hummingbird decides to hover right in my face and stay there chirping away aggressively while flashing his red throat; even when I move my head, he moves with me. Ah, just as well considering that I'll probably not understand a thing the old victor's saying.

Though that hummingbird is looking increasingly testy, and I'm desperately trying not to get my eyes crossed.

" Uh… Beetee? Is it possible for us to have a change of scenery?"

He stops his talk – something about using the proper code – and finally notices the little guy trying to get into a staring contest with me.

"Ah, you made a friend! I've been desperately trying to get them to stay still for some proper observations. So can _you_ stand still for a moment?"

A "moment" turns out to several minutes while Beetee takes several recordings, measurements, notes, and who-knows-what while my "friend" gets more agitated by the minute. He's also to be gathering some company. My mind briefly wanders to Haymitch's games, with those pink fluffy birds…

"Alright! Done. Walk with me."

As I move to depart the place, the birds finally scatter, including my friend from the beginning. Though one of the females decides to take a gift for herself before heading off in her own direction. 

"Agh!" That gift happens to a couple strands of my hair.

Beetee just chuckles at that. "Apparently your hair is perfect building material."

"Wonderful. Was there anything you wanted to tell me?"

"Actually, I had something made for you."

That almost stops me in my tracks. "You did?"

"Yeah, something I thought would be useful. And just as well since Plutarch mentioned that you wanted out into the field."

We go past the secure doors and into the armory. While I stand there gawking — probably in the most idiotic of fashions — at all of the assorted weapons set up, Beetee retrieves a long thin box.

"Here," he says while handing me the box, "I give you the honor of opening your gift."

When I open it, I see a single gleaming cane. It's nothing fancy, but, from the burnished metal to the handle's accents, it's clear that it's made for public viewing.

Beetee looks on with cheerful apprehension. "Go on, test it out. I contacted your current doctors to get an estimate of how long it should be. I hope it works well."

I walk around with it and find that it does indeed fit me well. Granted with my leg fixed, I don't have too much use for it, but it will probably get me by during those periods where the leg gives out.

"Thanks, Beetee." And I mean it. "This is a wonderful gift."

"Don't thank me yet. I want to test some things out first. Please be on your guard."

I have barely enough time to register what Beetee just said before he comes swinging down at my head with a metal bar. I instinctively hold the cane out to block against the bar, which is stopped in its tracks, with a negligible feeling of shock down my arms.

Mental shock on the other hand…

"WHAT THE HELL BEETEE?"

"Just testing for constitution. And the subject has not fallen apart."

 _Fallen apart?_ "What do you mean by that?"

"Look closely at the shaft. What do you see?"

Taking a closer look at the cane, I can see what he's talking about. Midway down, there is a barely-noticeable seam dividing the shaft into two main sections.

"As can be seen, the connection is strong enough to withstand a melee attack. However, should you choose to split the cane, it should come apart quite easily. Observe:" Beetee leans forward to carefully enunciate, "'Cane, split.'"

And just like that, the cane snaps cleanly in half in my hands. So I can either have a shorter melee weapon or duel-wield if needed, though most caution against the latter in general.

He proceeds to show me that the bottom half can shoot out poisonous flechettes with the command: "Cane, shoot"; the top half can shoot out electrified wire with a: "Cane, lighting"; and so on. Not to mention more mundane features, such the weighted handle having a sharp point to it.

"While we know you want a peaceful role, you shouldn't be defenseless out there; just in case of course. And we know your strong suit is melee combat. So we thought this best suited for you, especially considering the practical function of it. Of course, most of these command-issued weapons — which, by the way, we need to get recognized to you at some point — are one-use and thus a last resort."

Although I don't know what to think about carrying a mini armory around with me, Beetee did put a lot of work into it. And the cane itself is useful; I just hope I don't have to use any of its components.

"Again, thanks Beetee. I — do you hear something?"

His face lights up. "Must finally be broadcasting your interview. Good to know my hack was successful."

"I just want to know if they added anything," I mumble as we walk towards the nearest television.

It's clear that the interview is winding down as I'm addressing the districts about trusting Thirteen.

And they also have indeed added something. Because just as I'm done ranting about who the enemy is, bold letters flash in front of my paused face: "SO SAYS THE VOX!"

So… apparently I'm called the _Vox_.

I've been called worse.

* * *

 

***The Capitol: Now***

"You did well out there Katniss," I tell her over another dinner. "And considering how smoothly things have been going lately and how cooperative you've been, I'd say another concession is in order."

"What kind of concession?"

I simply shake my head and smile. "Now, now. That's to be a surprise."

Things have indeed been going quite smoothly.

The first interview managed to demoralize some of the rebels. Not enough to make a discernible impact yet, but a good start so far. I have a good feeling that the recent footage of Katniss will add upon that good fortune.

More importantly have been the constant strategic gains being made recently, even without the assistance of that blasted commander from Central. And neither Two nor Twelve show any signs of restlessness.

To top things off, construction of the Fort East is nearing completion. Once finished, it should give us a foothold to launch a direct campaign against Thirteen.

Also, ever since she and her mother have been working at Panem Medical Center, Primrose has been keeping her mouth shut. The return of her cat seems to have improved her disposition vastly as well.

All in all, I can't complain.

Without warning, my projector comes to life.

"What's this now?" I haven't authorized any broadcasts recently.

However, instead of the Capitol seal, it's Thirteen's with the mockingjay motif superimposed over it.

So the rebels have finally managed to break in. Probably with Beetee's help.

Of course, the video starts off with Plutarch Heavensbee introducing himself and dramatically summarizing the events leading up the Rebellion. That bloviating gamemaker has always been obsessed with theatrics. I see leaving the Capitol has not changed him one bit.

After Plutarch has finished with his pontificating, the footage cuts to Cressida Fowler, which explains where she went. Fowler was a high profile journalist and one of the most respected in Panem. The Capitol was actually rocked by scandal for a while when she and several of her co-workers disappeared without a trace. Naturally, Katniss' and Mellarks' Victory Tour pushed that out of everybody's mind; such is the fickleness of Capitol attention spans.

In any case, I have little doubt as to who the main speaker will be.

Katniss gasps when Peeta Mellark is finally introduced; most likely since she has not seen any sign of him for weeks, but also probably because of the physical state he's in. No doubt this was actually shot not very long after our interview went out, but it's clear that the short amount of time between his escape and the arrival to District Thirteen has not been good to him.

"Mr. President," Ferrier, my communications specialist, calls in over the speaker, "what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing for now," I say with an amused smile. "But on my signal, cut the broadcast."

Mellark's describing what it's like to be in the arena. Normally, I would have them shut it off by now, but I decide to let it keep going a bit. The citizens of the Capitol are enthralled by such things, and I might as well give them some entertainment. Once things start veering into dangerous territory, I'll easily have the broadcast shut down.

Which seems right about now as it looks like he about to get into the subject of the relationship; some uncomfortable truths may surface as to why it was a sham.

"Alright, this has gone long enough. End it."

The image flickers as my technicians work to bring down the broadcast. At any moment now, it should shut off.

_Any moment now…_

Nothing's happening.

I frown at the image.

"Mr. Ferrier, I am still seeing it running. Are you or are you not shutting it down?"

"Um, sir… we can't."

Any lingering amusement slips away pretty quickly. Especially since it's has just been flat out mentioned that I threatened Katniss.

"What?" I demand through clenched teeth.

"We are trying the best we can!" That idiot of a technician is practically squeaking.

"Then try harder! We have the most updated infrastructure in this nation and a team of skilled specialists. They have a single aging victor. Are you honestly telling me you can't stop this broadcast?" By now, the boy is actually going into the subject of the war, which is as far past unacceptable as we can get.

"They seem to have several redundancies in place. We take one safeguard out, and there are several more replace it. They may even have some proxies here in the Capitol."

"Take as many out as you can then! You supposedly have a brain; use it! Is there no other option?"

"There is shutting down the grid, but you know what that will entail."

_Dammit…_

So now I have to sit here, impotent, and watch as this _child_ attempts to undermine me.

By the time the interview has concluded, Mellark is screaming for the district to focus all their energy towards beating the Capitol. Then it ends with Plutarch's typical flair.

I get up, walk to the liquor table, pour myself a straight glass of Scotch, down the drink, and then I hurl the tumbler against the wall. The crystal shatters into a multitude of fragments, causing my dinner guests to jump.

With that single interview, Peeta Mellark managed to make the false relationship sympathetic and allying with District Thirteen the lesser evil. Worse, he managed to do all of this without uttering a single lie.

I should have killed the damn sentimental fool in the very beginning! If he would've died before Crane made that idiotic decision to allow two tributes, then Katniss, had she won, would've just been another victor.

However, I was so focused on her and those berries that I ignored the boy that made that action possible. The boy who willingly stoked those embers of discontent into flames of rebellion, while keeping himself in the Mockingjay's shadow. Hell, Katniss wouldn't have cast such a large shadow if it weren't for his actions. The declaration of love, the willingness to let himself die at the revoking of the rule change, the gift to the District Eleven, the lie about the marriage and the baby…

The only two other characters that approached his ability in crafting Katniss into the "Mockingjay" were Rue and Cinna. The former's martyrdom was unfortunately inevitable, and latter has been taken care of. But now that option is off the table as well. I just had to make the damn promise with Katniss that I wouldn't specifically target Mellark for death. I may be a lot of things, but I'm not an oathbreaker. The best I can hope for is him getting killed off early on in the war before he becomes true martyr material.

Looking over, I see that the Everdeens are looking at me quite fearfully. So, I take a moment to take a few deep breaths, as I straighten my collar and smooth back my hair, before addressing them.

"I'm sorry you all had to see me lose my composure like that. Don't worry, Katniss, my promise still stands. Now if you excuse me, I have some business to attend to. All of you are free to go."

None of them say anything as they leave, other than the usual pleasantries of thanking me for the dinner, though now Primrose is looking particularly smug.

After the door shuts, I bring the footage back up and pause it to glare at Mellark's frozen face.

_So you finally managed to step into this arena. Well then, Mr. Mellark… Game on._

_Game on._


	7. Voice of Freedom

A couple days has passed since the broadcast went out. So I spend most of that time researching on the history of Panem. While it may be in the past, knowing about it may give some clues on how to help people now.

I've just gotten through much of the Dark Days — Twelve actually had quite a bit of power back then… as well as a lot of blood on its hands — when Haymitch barges into the library.

"Alright, you want your chance out there? There apparently seems to have been a reprieve in the recent bombardment of Eight. Command attributes it to the Capitol wanting to consolidate forces in Twelve while they continue building up the fortifications. I personally think that they are taking a breath to prepare for another shot.

"But that's all irrelevant. What matters is that you have a window of time to do whatever propo you need to do. Coin wants you to head out this afternoon."

Before I can thank him, he stops me.

"Just remember this: I'm still your mentor, and what you will be getting into is potentially way more dangerous than the arena. So if you are going be going out there, you have to listen to everything I tell you. No arguments. Agreed?" He holds out an earpiece, but as I reach for it, he pulls his hand back.

"And I definitely don't want you to become a martyr."

When I nod, he hands me the gadget and continues on. "Alright then, grab your stuff and go to the Remake Room; they'll probably have your outfit waiting there. After that, somebody will escort you to the hovercraft. We'll be waiting for you."

After getting some necessities, I head over to the Remake Room with a feeling of anxiety. I mean yeah, this is what I wanted, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm simply heading over into another arena. In any case, it's not like it can help me now.

Probably since a short amount of time has passed since I was last worked-on, this session is blissfully straightforward. Some cleaning here, some hair work there, and of course a bit more work around my eyes; I doubt they will ever be able to remove the shadows. But otherwise, it's short and sweet.

Despite still being fairly nervous living in Thirteen, the prep team is currently in better spirits than they were during the last session I had with them. While Gale has unsurprisingly been unsympathetic to their plight, the rest of the Hawthornes have been very accommodating. Posy has gone so far as to offer compliments and allow them to do her hair every morning.

As they work on me, they talk about how good of a subject I've been, even though they still miss Katniss a lot. At the very least, I'm apparently being an easier person to work with than the "other guy".

_Other guy?_

Before I can ask who they're talking about, they declare the job finished. After all three wish me luck, they head out of the room and leave me with my clothes. It's just like seen in the sketches. Black pants, black combat boots, and a white t-shirt. When put together, it actually looks like I'm wearing a pair of dress pants and shoes, but at the same time the pants feel very durable and the boots lightweight. It's clear that Portia designed these to take a lot of abuse, yet still keep me comfortable and looking good for the audience. The shirt just seems like something to wear under the coat... which is actually not present.

My question as to its location is answered when I exit the room to see Beetee waiting for me with a long box. And an exceedingly wide grin on his face.

"You look really excited."

"Well, who knew that working on an article of clothing, of all things, would give me such a sense of accomplishment? Your stylist is a freakin' genius."

He opens the box so I can see for myself. The first thing I notice is that the coat isn't solid black as I imagined from seeing the sketches. Instead, it consists of various shades of black and charcoal arranged in an assortment of patterns that would be indistinct from a distance past a couple feet but, on closer inspection, are elaborate and flame-like. Just as indistinct are a series of lines which crisscross the fabric. The only sign of color on the whole thing is a small golden mockingjay insignia on the collar. It's indeed a beautiful piece.

I finally pick the coat up to examine it better. On the back, I see that the lines are especially concentrated along my spine and shoulders, and the patterning takes the form of a pair of wings. "Thing's a lot heavier than I expected."

"That's because of this." Beetee peels back the soft interior lining to reveal a hexagonal mesh. There's something really familiar about it…

"It's body armor, isn't it?" Just like what Cato wore.

"Yes, and there's a reason, besides aesthetics, that your coat goes past the knees. It should protect you against most conventional arms fire as well as indirect blade attacks and, most importantly, flying shrapnel. There is some stopping power against high-caliber projectiles, though the trauma you would receive likely negate most of the benefits. And even small-arms fire will probably hurt like hell and cause serious bruising, so don't go around trying to get shot. I general, this is made more for comfort and mobility than for protection, though it should be more than sufficient for what you'll be doing. And if you so wish, there's enough room to fit a protective vest inside."

He puts the lining back in place. "The interior lining should also provide a significant amount of additional protection as it is made from spider silk—oh, don't look at me like that," Beetee snaps in response to my likely chagrined expression. "I suppose I shouldn't tell you what regular silk consists off. Or what a lot of things that you probably like have in them."

"Well," I say, trying not to think of all the times I've ran face-first into spider webs, "it _is_ very comfortable."

"See? That's the spirit. Anyways," he flips the coat over so we can see the exterior, "the external fabric itself is made to withstand abrasion and bladed instruments. It's also both water-repellant and fire-resistant. Your pants are of a similar material, though they won't afford the same degree of physical protection. And of course this all won't protect you against convection or smoke inhalation, though there's a mask for the latter." He takes a moment to sigh, "It's a pity we don't have time, otherwise we could probably have done a live-fire demonstration to test out its capabilities."

No doubt while I'm wearing it.

I show him a pained smile. "Maybe when I get back." _Not._

As I look over the coat again, suddenly the fact that it's August becomes a very uncomfortable fact. "It's still summer. Is it really a good idea to wear something this dark and heavy?"

"Already taken into account," Beetee chirps. "Take a look at the lining again."

When I do, I can see that there are another series of lines, mostly concentrated around my back and the nape of my neck.

He goes on to explain: "Those lines, whenever the temperature is above your comfort zone, will cool down to maintain the interior temp. In a cold setting, they do the opposite for the same effect."

"Damn… that's pretty sophisticated." By now, even I'm in awe.

"I know, right!" Beetee's positively elated explaining this. "When this is over — assuming we survive of course — I seriously have to meet your stylist."

"I'll be sure to tell her she has another fan out there," I say as I finally put the coat on — its heaviness isn't noticeable when being worn — and secure the belt that's around it.

Beetee uses that period of time to bring out another box. "Since you aren't exactly going to have a lot of pockets, the belt's there to hold your stuff."

He hands me various survival essentials: among other things, a canteen, several pouches to carry essentials, gas mask, and combat knife. "I know that you're supposed to look as personable and nonthreatening as possible, so all of those were designed to keep an exceedingly low profile. Also, there's a spot to secure your cane if need be; just break it in half to fit it into these loops.

"Aand that should be it!" He looks at me expectantly as if I were a student about to ask another question.

All I do is try to give him a hug, which he deftly avoids, and say, "Seriously, Beetee, thanks." Despite all his quirks, the guy does good work, and I don't think people give him enough credit.

"Aw, don't get gooey on me. Besides, it's your stylist who provided the plans and materials; I just oversaw the adaptation and implementation." He suddenly loses his cheery demeanor. "But seriously kid, stay safe out there. I've seen far too many young ones like you die in both the arenas and Three. It may not affect me as personally as some of the others, but that doesn't mean I don't give a damn."

I nod. "I understand, and don't worry; I have no intention of dying this time."

He gives a small smile. "I thought as much. Alright, we've dallied long enough. Any longer and Command will have my hide."

I gather my things and walk out of the Remake Center to see Commander Boggs patiently waiting for me. He nods approvingly at my costume before beckoning for me to follow him.

When our elevator finally arrives at the hangar, I see rows upon rows of aircraft and give him a very pointed look.

"I know what you're thinking, Mellark. That Everdeen may have a point about not trusting us. Well I'm telling you that we didn't have a choice." While we are in a very open space, he still keeps his voice down.

He goes on to explain that there was no opportunity for counterattack. That they were busy trying to survive. That continuing would have resulted in mutually-assured-destruction. It all sounds rehearsed.

"Just answer me this, Commander: were you around for the Dark Days?"

He shakes his head, then adds, "By the way, just call me Boggs."

"Alright, then just call me Peeta. In any case, you don't think it remotely suspicious that there's little history on Thirteen?"

When he doesn't say anything, I continue: "Because what little information I could find tended to be indirect mentioning. But I've got enough information to make this conclusion: even into much of the Dark Days, Thirteen had extremely favorable relations with the Capitol. Considering how quickly they withdrew when terms were offered, I doubt that altruism was a factor for rebelling."

Boggs doesn't say anything but from the expression on his face, I can tell he already harbors doubts. But considering I don't have enough info yet, I decide not to push the issue.

When we reach the hovercraft, I see that everybody else is already there and waiting for me. Other then several soldiers and work crew, I spot Haymitch, who's still looking at me pretty sourly, Chaff, the film crew, Plutarch, and Fulvia

If it wasn't possible before for a person to simultaneously hold an expression of both approval and distaste on their face, Fulvia achieved that now. I think she's still pretty steamed about me partly dictating the terms of my appearance during the interview and makeovers. That, by now, my weary complexion has become a constant doesn't help things one bit.

She sighs. "At the very least, the outfit is really sharp and compliments you well. And I don't doubt your oratorical skills. Still…" She reaches inside a huddle of people to yank somebody out to display to me. "Doesn't he look marvelous?"

_So that's the "other guy" whom the prep team was talking about: Gale._

I don't know whether to laugh at his current sheepishness or to be uncomfortable at the way Fulvia's question was phrased. So I instead just pour all my focus on what he's wearing, which isn't the usual set of Thirteen fatigues.

Instead it's some kind of form-fitting body armor, and it's clear that, unlike my coat, the primary purpose Gale's outfit is for protection in combat, judging from the rigid plates covering his body. A bracer is on his left arm, and a sheath is attached to his back. The last thing I take note of is the stylized nature of the armor plates, as well as the general color scheme: black with patches of white around the sleeves.

He's supposed to be a mockingjay.

"The costume was originally designed by Cinna for Katniss," Plutarch says when he notices the subject of my attention. "But, in her absence, it made perfect sense for Hawthorne wear it. It wasn't too hard to adapt to both his gender and physique; though in the process we removed the majority of the stylistic elements and made it much more utilitarian in design."

He appraises the hunter, who's looking more uncomfortable by the minute. "I have yet to coin something for him. Originally, he was to be the 'Mockingjay's Cousin', but alas…"

At that point, Gale stops looking uncomfortable and starts looking pissed, which is a good sign as any to board the hovercraft.

After a couple minutes, the rest of the group boards and it's not long after we all strap in that the hovercraft begins taking its path out of the Hanger.

As we begin our ascent, a random question come to the forefront of my mind.

"So, Plutarch…"

"Hmm?"

"What does _'Vox'_ mean?"

"I'm kind of surprised you haven't asked me that earlier."

"Never found the time."

"Well, in any case, it's a Latin word which translates to 'voice'."

 _Ah, so Avox means "lack of voice". Never thought of it that way._ "So what made you choose that word?"

"You seriously haven't figured that out yet? Your gift has always been that of speech. During the Quarter Quell interview, you gave voice to the concerns of the victors and many in the districts. Now you're giving voice to the Rebellion and the districts as a whole. Officially, my title for you is 'Voc Libertas', or the 'Voice of Freedom', but Vox is much simpler in practice."

"Seems to be a lot to put on a seventeen-year-old."

"Well, the path to greatness is not always something that is voluntary. You'll do fine."

 _I'm just hoping this doesn't blow up in my face._ And that's the primary thought that sticks in my mind as the hovercraft gets closer to its destination. But again, I can't afford to dwell on that.

Since the fortification of Twelve, hovercraft travel from Thirteen has apparently become even more risky than before. It's clear that the Capitol is trying put a stranglehold on the district as it moves to put down the rest.

So to be on the safe side, our trip consists of the hovercraft hugging the coastline of the Eastern Wilderness. I spend much of the time peering out to view remnants of the civilization that came before. While most of the cities in that area were completely leveled by nuclear strikes around the time of the Great Cataclysm, there are still traces of the once-proud nation to be seen: be it in the lucky set of intact ruins or the faint paths that denote the great highways which used to crisscross the land.

When I'm not enjoying the sights, I'm catching up with my fellow travelers. Talking with Gale and Chaff, I can see that I'm not the only one who was provided with custom goodies by Beetee.

Due to his hunting background, and probably the desire to connect him to Katniss, Gale's been provided with a bow. However, it's definitely not the familiar kind that I've seen in the Games or back home. This one's a heavy-duty piece of machinery that has a complex pulley system as well as a sight-and-laser system for better aiming. To top things off, he's given a quiver that is divided into three sections for different types of arrows: incendiaries, explosives, and conventional broadheads.

In Chaff's case, there was the tiny issue of him missing an entire hand and Thirteen not really having any good prosthesis specialists. So it seems that Beetee decided to go for the overkill method and give him a grenade launcher. A special saddle was made for his shoulder so that there was a stable spot to rest the weapon on, and all he had to do to reload was tip the thing backwards so that the ammo backpack took care of the rest. To top things off, Chaff's stump was given an attachment just to help hold the weapon and to program what kind of grenade he desired for the next reload.

The eager way at which they both show off the weapons is a bit… disconcerting.

Plutarch is enthusiastically keeping me updated on the effect of my interview. Apparently, after it had released, many of the districts did successfully rally. However, we still have a long road ahead of us. He also tells me that I'm going to shoot the propo at a makeshift hospital.

Just as well; it's not like I'm the type that would do well in a battlefield.

At the announcement that we are approaching Eight, I grab my essentials, which, other than the cane and what I already have secured on my belt, simply consists of a large rigid backpack. With time to spare, I take a look at the scenery of my destination and steel myself for whatever fate will meet us.


	8. Eight

When Katniss and I were last in District Eight during the Victory Tour, I definitely did not gain a positive impression from the place. Sure, Twelve's so covered in coal dust that our teeth have been slightly stained from it; yet somehow this place managed to take dreariness to the next level. The first thing we noticed was how the sky always had this haziness to it from all of that smoke belching from the factories. Once we were outside, all the machinery from the factories created this cacophonous din that was inescapable; just as inescapable was the caustic scent of all the dyes utilized. And the people… that desperate hungry look that thinly veiled a true feeling of absolute rage at the injustices perpetrated around them.

Now, smoke still fills the sky. However, the current source isn't from textile production but the burning of buildings all around.

As a precaution, the hovercraft goes into a steep and rapid spiral in its descent, we are ordered to disembark as soon as possible. As I move to leave, Haymitch briefly stops me.

"Remember," he growls, "don't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry, I won't."

"Let me rephrase that: don't do anything that gives you a higher-than-average chance of dying before you reach your twenties." Dammit, he's good.

"I shouldn't come to that."

"You never know," he grimly mutters. But I'm still allowed to go.

The right after the last of us hit the ground, the hovercraft immediately takes off. Plutarch, Fulvia, and Haymitch are staying there to serve as support.

As our group sets up a makeshift camp, we are approached by a harried woman. She has to be in the lower thirties, but the war has definitely taken its toll on her physical state. Besides the assorted injuries — many of which look like they haven't been properly taken care of — there is a heavy look of fatigue that appears to have aged her a decade. Unlike Thirteen's soldiers, her combat gear mostly consists of street clothes and scavenged Peacekeeper armor.

Boggs motions me over to stand next to him, "Peeta, this is Commander Paylor."

"So you're Peeta Mellark…" She looks me up and down, definitely sizing and seeing what I'm made of. At first glance, considering her haphazard appearance, one wouldn't think that she was a high ranking officer. The lack of indentifying patches doesn't help, though it makes sense considering how the warzone is. However, there is a way that she holds herself up and speaks that commands authority and leaves no doubt as to her leadership skills. At the same time, her authoritative tone doesn't set me on edge like Coin's; instead it is the type of tone one may expect from a teacher.

"Yes, Commander. A pleasure to meet you." I smile and extend my hand out, which she warily takes. It's definitely going to take more than a warm greeting to let her know I'm on her side.

After the rest of the group is introduced, she beckons us to follow her. We head to what used to be a warehouse; now an "H" has been painted on the roof, and medics are hurrying in and out of the structure through a doorway covered by a thick curtain. I can hear Gale questioning Paylor as to the safety of such a facility; she gruffly retorts that it's the best they have and that she's open to any alternatives.

Outside the doorway, there are rows upon rows of covered corpses, many bloated in a state of advanced decomposition.

Suddenly I feel a sense of dreadful anxiety creep up on me, as if I will regret crossing that curtained threshold. However, the constant scrutiny from Paylor keeps me going closer and closer to it.

The moment I pass through the curtain, a thick wall of stagnant humidity, which has to be several degrees warmer than the summer air outside, slams into me.

I take a deep breath to compose myself; big mistake. As my eyes adjust to the light and the haze, the first thing that meets me are the smells: the acrid scent of vomit, the sharp odor of urine, the pungent stink of fecal matter, the muskiness of mold and mildew, the vaguely sour yet metallic smell of blood, the antiseptic scent of disinfectant, the sickly sweet stench of decomposition… All of it mixing together into a morbid cocktail that's so thick I can actually taste it. I have to resist the temptation put on the mask given to me.

Then come the sounds: the moaning of the injured, the plaintive cries for help, the soft mutterings of comfort and sharp wails of grief from loved ones, the frustrated curses from medics and healers, the buzzing of flies and skittering of vermin… Occasionally, I hear a wet sawing noise accompanied by muffled screams. The metal structure helps concentrate this into an echoing cacophony.

Finally my vision clears, and I get to view everything in its full glory; what little light is available is provided by the skylights. It is obvious that most of the people there are from the bombings. There are burns victims all over the place with charcoal flesh and blistered skin. In some cases, people might as well been made of candle wax, by the way their features have melted together into amorphous and mottled forms. On top of all of this, many folks are missing various body parts — limbs, eyes, other parts of the face, entire sections of the body —, some still have chunks of assorted shrapnel imbedded within them, and others are so badly maimed in the stomach that there is a struggle to keep their intestines inside.

I then notice is how little resources there are and how overcrowded the place is. People are not only laid on the rows-upon-rows of cots; they even placed on the floor as close together to save space. The floor itself is so slick with various bodily fluids that I almost lose my balance a couple times. Gale's definitely right about the place; I may not have any medical background, but cramming people like that in such unsanitary conditions can't be healthy.

And the bleak expressions of complete hopelessness on the faces…

I take back all the times I've made fun of Katniss' squeamishness. Nothing — not the Games, not helping Gale out after the whipping, not even the convoy of wounded we walked along — could have prepared me for the spectacle we've just entered into.

_Haymitch was right. This is a mistake. What was I thinking? I'm just good at cooking, hiding, and spouting fancy words. I'm not cut out for being in the field. I'm probably going to end up breaking down right in front everybody, especially Paylor. This does more harm than good. What am I supposed to d—_

A strong grip on my shoulder brings me back to reality. I look behind to see Gale and, from the focused look on his face, he's making it clear that he's going to help get me through this any way he can. The irony of the situation almost makes me laugh, but I'm thankful nonetheless.

I look at the rest of the team. Other than Boggs, the soldiers who come with us look about as sick as I feel; I don't blame them as training can only prepare for so much. To their credit, the film crew looks almost completely unfazed — well, with the gear their wearing, it's hard tell with Castor and Pullox — but from the stuff that Cressida has described witnessing firsthand, I'm unsurprised.

So I take a few moments and have a mental countdown before forcing myself forward along a narrow aisle, all the while tightly gripping the handle of my cane in the process. At first people don't take notice of me, probably thinking us to just be another, albeit strangely dressed, group of soldiers making our rounds.

Suddenly a young boy, probably acting as a courier by the way he's carrying some medical equipment, runs right into me. At first he's just making some terse apologies as he rushes to put stuff back onto the tray. As I crouch down to help him though, he finally looks up. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the kid's reaction borders on the comical. At first he narrows his eyes as if trying to make sense of me, who's currently handing over the last set of bloody scalpels; suddenly, said eyes become as wide as saucers and his jaw goes slack.

"Peeta? Is — is that you?"

When I nod my head and smile, he suddenly bolts off in the opposite direction — I really hope he doesn't drop that tray again — while squealing repeatedly, "It's Peeta! Peeta Mellark is here!"

Almost like a ripple emanating from the boy's path, people turn their faces towards us. Accompanying that, the moans, screams, and sobs slowly but surely become replaced with hopeful mutterings, then finally elated calling-out of my name.

The shift in the atmosphere actually helps me press on as a multitude hands reach out to me. I shake as many as I can, and allow others to grip my arms or my coat. For those too weak to move, I reassuringly pat them where they're uninjured. Some, who are more able to move, go so far as to embrace me. I don't do any fancy speeches, no loud words of inspiration; that's not what these folks need. They need a friendly face, casually saying hi, enquiring about the little things in life, even making a joke — mostly at my own expense — here and there. I do offer strong words of encouragement towards the fatigued physicians doing their jobs.

Best of all, people still inquire about Katniss. They don't blame either of us for the lies we created before, understanding the cruel circumstances we were put in. And they understand that Katniss' is working under duress right now; the Caged Mockingjay, they now call her. I respond to that moniker by saying that she may be caged, but that doesn't mean she still can't sing. Assurances are thrown towards me that I'll get her out and that we can finally be together. Fortunately, Gale shows no sign of those comments affecting him.

Upon coming across a group of especially weak patients, I end up taking my canteen off and allowing them take a sip. Gale follows suit with another patient. The canteens are passed around quite a few people until they return to us completely empty. I know there isn't enough to give to everybody, but it's the best I can do.

Once I reach the opposite end, I miraculously find a relatively clear spot to plop myself down. As people, mostly kids, gather around me, I take the pack off and open it. To the gasps of those around me, inside is an assortment of random small baked goods.

Most of them are cake balls and small cookies as they had staying power — I made these ones a days ago — and were the easiest to make in distributable batches with relatively minimal use of resources. Even so, I had bitter arguments with Coin over the value of doing such a thing. She thought it a complete waste. I countered that people are not buoyed by words alone; that incident, which I did not share with her, over six years ago was proof of that. Finally she relented under the pretense that this be experimental. As a result, I only had a limited amount that I could give out.

So I give priority to the children. Out of formality, I offer a cake ball to Paylor, but she declines saying that the kids should go first; the refusal ratchets her up several levels of respect in my book. As I hand out a treat to each treat, I can see cautious disbelief give way to joyous elation. Normally, the idea of eating in this setting would probably be repulsive, but they've probably been here so long that they're acclimated. Even though I had a limited amount, like with the water, everybody seems to have a look of gratitude. To top things off, many of the kids break their treats into small pieces and ran back to their loved ones to share.

Finally it comes time to leave. I smile and wave to everybody as I walk out. When the crowd reciprocates the gesture along with chants of my name, I admit that I feel a strong sense of accomplishment, especially since less than an hour ago I sensed nothing but despair there. Despite the hellish environment I'm in, seeing the joy on everybody's face makes up for all of it and then some.

It isn't until we walk outside that I realize how acclimated I became with the oppressive air inside the hospital. The cane thankfully keeps me from collapsing outright as I thankfully breathe in the fresh air. Boggs lets both me and Gale drink out of his canteen as both of ours have been completely drained. I only take a couple sips before handing it over to Gale, who completely guzzles it. Beetee was proven right in that the coat kept me from turning into a ripe mass of sweat; Gale wasn't as lucky.

"Good job in there," Boggs says, slapping me a couple times on the back. The film crew also gives me some appreciative comments and tells me that they got some excellent footage.

"I'm just glad I didn't have a little freak-out in there. Speaking of which…" I turn to Gale. "Thanks for helping me out."

He just waves me off. "It's the least I can do. Somebody has to be the strong one of the bunch."

Some people may have taken that as an insult, but I just chuckle. Despite our relationship with each other in the years prior, it's good to have him around. If not friend, I definitely see him as a trusted comrade.

Still, I can't resist shooting something back: "It's still good that you helped out. If I would have freaked, the speaking role would have probably fallen to you. Then we'd truly and utterly be screwed."

"Screw you, Mellark." Though I can see a smile playing on his lips. A few seconds later, both of us are laughing our heads off; I have to completely lean on my cane now, and Gale's actually on the ground in stitches.

Heh… We're complete lost causes, aren't we?

Paylor, who had also followed us out, finally chimes in once both of us have calmed down. "I have to admit, I didn't think you had it in you, Mellark. I also apologize for my brusque behavior earlier."

That causes me to chuckle some more. "Please, call me Peeta. And truth be told, I didn't think I had it within me either. But," I say, looking her straight in the eye, "it didn't seem right for me to spout rhetoric from the safety of Thirteen's bunker while everybody else suffers. Speaking of which, someone really needs to talk to Coin about getting some better medical care out here."

She nods appreciatively but then sighs, "While I'll be grateful for any kind of assistance of that front, I'm not holding my breath. And no offense, I thought you were coming here just to capitalize upon our suffering and turn it into some kind of circus for the masses to gobble up."

"None taken. Truth be told, there was a propo angle to me going out in the field, though I didn't choose the location."

"I'm not naïve to think that there wasn't a spin to this visit. And I'll be the first to admit that we need all the publicity we can get, even if it does require turning this war into a circus.

"My point though is this: the way you were walking among the injured and giving the treats to the kids, a thought dawned on me. It isn't just for the cameras, or to help spur on the Rebellion, or even some sense of obligation. You actually like helping others out, don't you?"

I shrug. "It just seems to be the decent thing to do."

"Well don't lose sight of that principle. The way things are going currently, good old-fashioned decency is going to be in short supply. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm probably needed back at our command station."

"I suggest you hurry there or towards any sort of shelter," Boggs suddenly cuts in, his face set in a grim expression as he plops a spare helmet on my head. "We have bombers inbound."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, some things may be getting a bit close to canon.


	9. Don't be the Hero

Paylor lets off a string of curses and runs off.

I quickly break my cane in two and holster the sections before following Boggs. As we run towards base camp, the sirens begin blaring, and a formation of bombers uncloaks to deliver its payload.

Explosions rock the place and Haymitch snarls, "Dammit! I knew that they were just gearing up for another attack. We can't land with this kind of bombardment, so you'll just have to find shelter until things pass."

"So this doesn't have anything to do with my presence?"

"Too short of a window for that; we planned your visit as pretty spur-of-the-moment," Plutarch calmly says.

As we arrive back at camp, which had been set up under an old bridge, I think over the reasoning for the bombing.

_If it isn't because of me, the attack seems pretty pointless. There aren't any military targets of value here. Unless…_

_They're going after the hospital_.

The concept is so horrific, but it makes complete sense. It isn't enough to take people out of commission; one has to get rid of any possible way for them to recover from it, even if the facilities are currently subpar. Also there is the purpose of showing the rebels that there's no place safe for them to be.

I ask Plutarch, "Has the hospital been hit yet?"

"It doesn't look like it. But I don't see how that is any of your concern."

"Like hell it isn't!"

"Boy…" Haymitch cuts in, "I know what you're thinking. Don't you fucking dare play the hero."

"It's not just about doing what's right," I retort. "If the supposed symbol of the Rebellion does nothing but hunker down when the going gets tough, what image do you think that will paint of us?"

"Well it's not like people are going to see you hiding out," Plutarch counters.

"No, of course you won't have that in the propos. But conclusions can be drawn, and who's to say that the Capitol doesn't have cameras around to watch us take shelter? On the other hand, if I go out there, you'll have a beneficial boost to your propos the likes which have never been seen. But the longer we stand and argue, the more the opportunity slips away." I can just see the wheels turning in Plutarch's head. Some people are just too easy to manipulate.

Haymitch is a tougher guy to convince. "Come on. Just… please don't go out there. I can't lose you as well." By now, his hostile tone has been replaced with a pleading one. That causes me to grimace. I really can't blame the guy. Time after time, he has mentored kids in a one-way manner. Just a year after he actually brings two back home, one has been taken under his watch. And now the remaining kid wants to get into another dangerous situation.

"Haymitch," I say in the same tone I used when comforting the dying girl from Eight and the addict from Six, "it's okay. I may not be a fighter, and my survival skills are definitely suspect, but you can't deny that I'm still a survivor."

"You've died three times out there."

"Losing the leg only counts as one. And in any case, I came back each time."

"… You're really planning on going ahead with this, aren't you?"

"Yes, with or without your permission. I wouldn't be able to live with myself otherwise. But I'd rather you be there for me."

"… Do you know that talking to you can sometimes be a real pain in the ass?"

I laugh. "I don't doubt it. Still, will you help me?"

After a protracted sigh, "There's going to be hell when we get back. What do you need me to do?"

"While you guys can't get close, you probably still have a good vantage point of the area. Be my eyes in the sky and let me know what's going on."

"Alright. In any case, stay alive."

"Don't worry. I have no intention of being a martyr," I end on a defiant note.

_Now that's out of the way, here comes challenge number two._

I turn towards Boggs, who's been watching my conversation attentively, and steel myself for a confrontation. I'd probably be able to escape but rather not escalate the situation, especially since he still answers to Coin. So what he does next surprises the hell out of me.

"Mitchell, grab the Hydra; you're also going to assist me with spotting and aiming. Leeg—"

"Yes?" the twins answer simultaneously. _Okay, seriously creepy._

Boggs barely skips a beat before pointing at the one with the gold flecks in her eyes. "Leeg 1, you and Holmes will be accompanying Mellark. Leeg 2, you will assist me with reloading and ground defense. Everybody else, see if you can help anybody here with the AA nests. You two," he says, rounding on Gale and Chaff, "I trust you both know what to do."

The only response they give is to bring their weapons out and show smiles so feral that I take a step back.

A short moment passes as everybody is either waiting for more directions or trying to process the ones already given to us. But, as Mitchell comes back lugging what looks to be a massive rocket launcher, all Boggs does just raise his eyebrows in a manner that states, _"Well, don't you all need to be somewhere?"_

All of us scatter to our respective destinations. I bolt back towards the hospital, with the two soldiers following closely behind.

Haymitch comes back on. "Boy, we have another formation coming in, and I can easily see you from up here. You'll need be more careful about how you move."

So we end up running closely along the warehouses and through the alleys, even though it takes a bit longer.

Suddenly, I see the formation materialize right over us. It's a set of seven wedged-shaped hoverplanes in a v-arrangement. Before they do anything, however, a rocket comes whizzing from the direction of base camp. As it gets closer, it explodes forward into three subsidiaries which slam into the three lead bombers. The leader, as well as the one to its left, goes down almost immediately while the one to its right careens out of control and takes out the other two planes from that arm. As the remaining two planes progress, an explosion blossoms in front of one, riddling its cockpit with holes. The last plane suddenly has what looks to be an arrow attached to its wing before that explodes, sending the plane into a spin.

"Okay, now you have a little less than a minute's window before the next wave."

I take Haymich's advice and use that precious time to move in the open again. By the time the aircraft appear, we have finally made it to the hospital, which fortunately hasn't been hit. However, the warehouse adjacent to it definitely has and is ablaze. Considering the proximity, it's clear that the building is going to collapse into the hospital and/or the flames are going to simply spread. Either way, the hospital is no longer a viable place to stay.

Putting my gas mask on, I barge inside and grab the first medic I find. The guy's understandably bewildered.

"Mr. Mellark? Wha—"

"No time! You need to evacuate everybody from here."

"But we can't move many of these people and the bombing—"

Instead of explaining that the hospital isn't exactly fortified and that they'll probably save more people by dispersing them, I quickly drag him outside and point to the burning warehouse, which is looking more unstable by the minute. The medic's eyes widen at that sight, and he rushes back in to warn the others.

In good time too. As we help evacuate the wounded, flames start appearing at the side closest to the burning warehouse. Due to the inevitability of the situation, people focus on helping move others instead of putting out the blaze. Besides the entrance we came in, there's also an emergency exit that people are quickly evacuating through.

Ultimately, there are also different levels of priority given to the wounded; both to ensure there is enough help to go around and also to prevent clogging up the exits. Of course, those who are able to walk are expected to let themselves out or even help move others if they are strong enough. Children take precedence, as are those who are able-bodied enough to be useful when healed. However, those who have serious enough injuries are passed over; most understand and take things in stride, but others…

Suddenly, a roaring noise can be heard, followed by a loud explosion right outside the front of the hospital. Some people are thrown back from the entrance, which is now on fire.

Leeg runs over to me with a grim expression on her face. "Bomber crashed there. So that entrance is now blocked, and I don't think we can get everybody through the back way in time."

 _Dammit…_ Still, we direct everybody towards the back way. Suddenly I get an idea and proceed to unholster the top half of the cane. Walking along the perimeter of the warehouse, I finally find an area of wall that looks both weak, yet flanked on either side by sturdier stretches.

"Alright, everybody step back!" This is either going to work and give us an exit, or it's going to send the whole building crashing on top of us. Not much choice either way.

Holding it by the handle, I point the cane up towards the wall and speak the following command: "2-11-35: Stonecutter." When recorded my voice into the cane, I told Beetee to give it a different prompt as just the word "Cane" could cause it to go off accidentally; so we just made the prompt numerical.

Anyways, what usually would be the taser shoots out and sticks into the wall; however no electricity is shot through it. Instead, the section of cane detaches from the handle and follows the line straight into the wall. Putting the handle into one of my pockets, and praying that Beetee won't kick my ass when I get back, I then yell in rapid succession, "Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock!"

The Nightlock command was something devised for desperate circumstances. Normally it causes the cane to explode in the most spectacular of fashions, taking the user, plus several people around him, with it. However, with the Stonecutter command, it directs the blast towards whatever it's stuck into. In this case, the wall.

Debris flies outward, and everybody steels themselves for the roof to collapse on top of us. Fortunately it doesn't and now we have a good sized exit to escape through. Also, luckily by now, the group we have isn't that big and so is moving out in good time; by now, the other exit has also cleared out. Anybody else… unfortunately is past saving; I try to block out the screams and sounds of crackling flesh.

At that moment, I notice that Messalla and one of the cameramen standing by the exit and capturing footage. I'm pretty impressed that they managed to shadow us the entire way without being noticed.

As I help the last of the evacuees get out, I hear a small set of coughs behind me. Throwing any sense of self-preservation to the wind, I motion for the reporters and soldiers to go on without me — not without some substantial resistance and hesitation on their part — and then proceed to pick my way towards the source of the sound… and the ever-encroaching flames.

Of course, at that moment, Haymitch just has to come on line, "It looks like that's last of them. Why don't I see you amongst the crowd?"

"I think I hear a kid, and I'm going to get her."

Over the headset, I can hear Haymitch putting his hands over his face. "I give up. You're beyond saving."

"Nice of you to finally realize that."

I finally find the source, which is a small girl of about five or six. She's collapsed on the ground and is clearly having trouble breathing due to fumes filling the place up.

As I move to scoop her up, a cracking sound quickly alerts me before fiery pieces of the roof start breaking off. I quickly ball up around her as the chunks fall on top of me. The fragments aren't large or heavy enough to pin or harm me, but even with the flameproof covering and armor of the coat, it still smarts. Not helping are the embers that land on my neck and fall down my collar.

"AGH FUCK!" I really hope the kid didn't pick up on that.

"What happened?" Haymitch yelps.

"Nothing to worry about, just some debris!"

Before getting up to run out, I quickly take of the mask and fix it on the girls face. "I think you need this more than me."

"Your voice no longer sounds muffled. Please tell me you didn't just give away what I think you just gave away," Haymitch groans.

"Sorryhaymitchcanthearyou! Buildingcollapsingaroundme!"

"WHAT?" Okay, maybe I used a bad choice of words. To be fair, the hospital is indeed starting to completely fall apart now.

As I hurry my way towards the exit, it does occur that taking the mask off may have not been the smartest of choices. Now on top of the previous stuff in the hospital's air, there's now the added bonus of toxic fumes and the scent of burning flesh. I have less than sixty feet to travel, but each step seems to increase the distance tenfold. Coughs wrack my body due to my respiratory system feeling like it's simultaneously being clogged and having an entire layer stripped away with each breath. I have to keep myself from tripping as my vision as completely clouded from the tears; even they aren't enough to stop the feeling of my eyes being scalded. And… _wow… I'm feeling a bit woozy._

Don't know how, but I finally make it to the exit. The promise of fresh air both clears my vision breath a bit; at least enough to give me energy for that final push. Of course a flaming piece of sheet metal has to fall in my way, blocking my exit path, with cries of dismay being heard from the other end. When that happens, something inside me snaps.

_No. I've gone too far. I've argued with my mentor about this. I feel like hell. And now this happens? I'm not going to become a martyr just because of some stupid sheet of corrugated roofing. And I'm not in the fucking mood for further delays!_

Vocal translation: "AAAARRGGH!"

I follow that up with an angry kick. The sheet's… lighter than I expected and simply falls over. On the bonus note, it does provide a nice ramp for walking over the strewn rubble created by my earlier exit strategy.

When I walk outside — allowing that fresh air to wash over me — I see everybody gathered in a crowd, which hints that there aren't any more bombs on the way. The reaction I get is… interesting. I mean, of course it's a bit disingenuous to expect cheering or anything of that short. I however, did not expect everybody to simply stare in the most bewildered of expressions. Even Gale, who looks like he's just finished off an impassioned speech to Cressida, is completely slack-jawed when he turns around to see me.

I feel a tug of irritation. _Did they not expect me to survive or something? Never seen a guy escape from a burning building?_

Haymitch breaks my train of thought with a long sigh of relief but suddenly follows up with, "The hell?"

Before I can demand an explanation, the girl in my arms giggles and says, "That tickles".

When I look down to ask her what the matter is, I then see why everybody has been staring at me in such a way. It also takes every fiber of my being, with a healthy dose of quick realization, not to scream and tear my coat off due to this very simple reason:

I'm completely wreathed in flames.

* * *

 

***The Capitol: Four Hours Later***

It was bad enough hearing that we lost several entire set of bomber flights over District Eight. And now I have to deal with this drivel?

Things started out innocently enough. Well, about as innocent as another communications break-in by District Thirteen can be. By now, I don't think my professionals are even trying to stop the broadcasts. And of course, it happened during dinner again.

No doubt that this was in response to the footage of Katniss walking around her home district. Mellark was busy milling around amongst the wretched masses in that makeshift hospital. Nothing much occurring; just the general comforting platitudes and gift giving that seem to characterize that sentimental fool. Though surprising was his extreme amicability with the Hawthorne boy. Both youths were also dressed in attire that seems to be suspiciously stylistic; at the very least, too stylistic to have come from Coin's ridiculously austere district.

At the sight of the other boy, Katniss reacted quite predictably; that is to say, an equal mixture of surprise, longing, and chagrin. Though, interestingly, the longing portion seemed to be different than the one she had when seeing Mellark.

Once the bombers showed up, this went by pretty quickly. Mellark ran to the hospital to get people to evacuate. Hawthorne, the drunk from District Eleven, and soldiers from District Thirteen assisted the District Eight rebels in shooting down the bombers. Mellark blasted a hole in the wall of the hospital to help give an exit. And for some reason, he told the others to go on without him as he went deeper to the burning building.

By the time the combatants took care of the bombers and met with the group of survivors outside the hospital, the building was actively falling apart. Hawthorne actually looked considerably distressed upon hearing that Mellark had not yet reemerged from the wreckage. Fowler decided to take the opportunity to ask him if he had any words to say. When he turned around, there was interplay of various emotions on his face: dismay, grief… and rage.

"Yes… Yes, I do. As you can see, where there was just a bombing attempt on a hospital. While there was no direct hit, there will be a lot of casualties from this. It bears repeating: this was a hospital. Not some military installation, not even a med station for wounded soldiers, but a hospital filled with defenseless men, women, and children," he says, stressing the last several words as his rage takes full control.

"Take a close look around. This is the kind of enemy we are dealing with. The kind that sends kids to die for the entertainment of a few. The kind that works the districts to death. The kind that thinks nothing of bombing a hospital, just so it doesn't have to deal with crippled workers if it wins the war. If you think a ceasefire will stop the horrors, think again. The Capitol is a giant that views the districts as nothing more than playthings that should be beaten if it just slightly displeased with them."

Hawthorne's face suddenly broke into a vicious grin. "Of course, all giants have their weak spots."

Footage was shown of the wrecked aircraft strewn across the landscape. Special attention seemed to be put on the Capitol seal, which was discoloring from the flames.

"Their forces are not invincible. And while the Capitol may be more powerful than the districts by themselves, there is no reason that it can withstand the onslaught of a united front. And to the Capitol…" He pointed one of his arrows straight into the camera with all of the hatred he could muster.

"You might as well make it easy on yourself and call it quits. However, if we are going down, you can bet that we'll bring you down with us!"

However, despite the vitriolic nature of the statement, it all paled in comparison to Mellark's return to the scene, heralded by the banging sound of a piece of sheet metal falling to the ground.

"What." Both Katniss and I had nothing more to say, other than that, at the sight of the spectacle that unfolded before us. Even Primrose seemed to be at a loss for words.

Mellark was standing at the threshold of this burning building with a small child in his arms. However, that's wasn't what caused our bewilderment. Nor was the fact that, besides having a face that was sooty, cut-up, and tearstained, the boy was practically unharmed even after taking off his gasmask.

It was the simple fact that he was on fire.

The fire was nothing like the flaming capes and headdresses of the 74th Games; nor was it like the costumes of glowing ember in the Quell parade. It wasn't even like Katniss' wedding dress. No, what Peeta Mellark had going for him was much worse.

In some spot the fabric itself pulsed deep red along lines and the patterning. However, it was clear that the glowing fabric took up such a small proportion of the outfit so as not to distract from the main event: the orange flames, with some highlights of blue, blazing all over the boy's coat as if he were dipped in oil and lit up.

But in the end, the thing that got my attention the most were the flames at his back and shoulder. They spread out from him in a way that made them look like fiery wings. As if he were a being from some certain banned literature; I seriously doubt that was accidental.

Just when I thought it was finished, Hawthorne had to begin chanting Mellark's name. Before long, the entire crowd was whipped into a frenzy. That's when it mercifully faded to black.

This time, in spite of the considerably more troubling imagery, I managed to keep my composure. Also, to their credit, the Everdeens said nothing for the duration of the time. We actually finished off dinner without incident before I dismissed them.

And now here I am, trying to figure out if I should try to figure out a way to directly counter this or whether I should just stick with the scripted plan.

After several stiff drinks, I make a call to my head of security. "Please send somebody to find Portia Summer, and bring her to my study as soon as possible."

~oOo~

When they bring the stylist in, I decide to start things off idly.

"Do you know that just a little over an hour has passed, and yet many Capitolites are actually fawning over Peeta Mellark to the point of giving him a nickname?"

"Really?" Summer feigns indifference and ignorance, but I can see the elation and self-congratulation behind the carefully constructed Capitol veneer.

"Yes, really. 'The Boy Who Can't be Burned', they are calling him."

"Well, he is a perfect match for the Girl on Fire," she muses. "It almost makes one wonder what they are thinking about the going-ons past the Capitol borders."

"Don't misinterpret the details. Mellark may have gotten their sympathy, but that does not mean that the Rebellion has. The Hawthrone boy's… enthusiasm has been enough to intimidate the citizens enough that they fear the prospect of the rebels coming to power.

"Now, I think it best for both of us if we dispense with the coyness and speak frankly to each other."

She purses her lips at this. "Fair enough."

"Okay then. Now," I bring up the image of Mellark, "were you responsible for designing this outfit?"

She hesitates only a little bit before steeling here resolve and answering firmly, and with no lack of pride, "Yes."

"What about this one?" I bring up Hawthorne.

A look of pain crosses her face. "No, that was Cinna's. Though it was originally for Katniss, and it's clear that they modified it a bit."

"Hmm…" Something just occurred to me. "You were the one who developed the synthetic flames in the first place, weren't you?"

"It was both of our ideas, but yes, I was pretty much in charge of the technical aspects. Cinna was the one who thought the idea up and adapted it to the costumes; he was always the more artistic one." Her expression suddenly shifts from wistfulness to considerable anger. "Of course, until you killed him."

"Now now. Let's not get hostile. Your partner knew the risks when he decided to publically defy the Capitol's authority—"

"You mean your authority!" she spits.

I simply wave that comment off. "Same thing. Now the question is… what are we going to do with you?"

When she doesn't reply, I decide to continue:

"Now it's been clear that between you two, Cinna was the one more closely tied to the Rebellion. So there is no point in getting information out of you. Also, it would be such a shame to lose a talent."

"So then what?" she asks me with an eyebrow raised.

"So then I think a minor disciplinary action would be sufficient. Guards?"

Before Summer can react, my guards restrains her to the chair. In the process, they drape something similar to a long heavy apron over her.

"What is this?" she demand.

I bring out a remote control. "I call it the Test of Humanity. Ring any bells? Probably not; I based the name from an old pre-Cataclysm novel. I don't think the series is even banned, but that's beside the point.

"The point is: this device stimulates your nervous system. So I can initiate all your pain receptors without actually do you physical harm. All the more useful considering that physical harm many times means the death of said receptors."

Fear starts showing on Summer's face, though she remains composed. For now.

"Anyways, considering what you have done, I think it be poetic that we simulate burning." I smile at her. "Of course, we will start off relatively isolated and mild. Let's say at the arms. So… is there anything you would like to say before we begin?"

"Screw you!"

"Eh… already got that over with." I start the device up.

To her credit, Summers doesn't completely break down when we commence. Probably keeping her composure out of some idea that she won't give me any satisfaction. She simply has no idea how far this can go before her mind shuts down from the pain.

"What do you want from me?" she gasps out after over fifteen minutes has passed, and the power has gone up several notches.

"Simply the satisfaction of you knowing your place in the world."

"You're a monster…"

That elicits a hearty chuckle from me. "You say that as if it were a bad thing. It simply implies that I'm so much more than a man." I dial the power up further.

A small satisfied smirk is allowed to form on my face when her resolves finally breaks in full, and she screams, with a mixture of incoherent yells and pleas for us to end it.

In the end, no matter how defiant they start out, they always scream.

~oOo~

After giving Summer some time to regain her composure, I make sure to give her a reminder of her obligations, with the assurance that there will be no… creative licensing when it comes to Katniss' future outfits.

Moving on to other fronts that I hopefully have a bit more control over, I make a call to my head interrogator. "Dr. Light, are you quite sure that we have gotten all the information possible out of Mr. Odair?"

"Yes, sir. I believe we reached that point three days ago. Anything now is just incoherent gibbering." That gives me considerable satisfaction. _Not so smooth any more, huh Odair?_

"Alright then. Compile any information that you have already obtained and send it to me directly. Though I still want you to see if we can wring anything more out of him, and then some.

"Also, in any case, I think it is safe for us to move on to the next phase. Inform the others to prepare the delivery."


	10. Special Kind of Evil

Sweat pours in rivulets over my brow and down my back as I help move rubble, and the occasional charred corpse, under the midday sun. I could have worn the coat to dampen the effects, but the power was drained in producing that little light show.

I decided to spend the night in Eight to help with the recovery efforts, with the agreement that we would go back afterwards. Haymitch was so drained from guiding me during the bombing that he didn't even bother arguing and simply grunted. Boggs agreed and used that time to go over the military plans in Eight. Plutarch's just happy to get good footage. It didn't take long for him to make edits and send it to Beetee to broadcast by the night.

Of course, they had to first treat me for any injuries I may have sustained during my time in the burning hospital. Fortunately, there wasn't much; some singed eyebrows, small cuts and burns on my face and down the back of my neck, and several large bruises on my back and the back of my legs. The damage to my throat and lungs are bit more serious but fixable back in Thirteen.

My work's interrupted by an alarm alerting us of an unauthorized hovercraft approaching. To our surprise, all it does is settle down at the outskirts of town. When we get there, soldiers surround the Capitol seal-emblazoned vehicle with heavy weapons at the ready.

"Please, don't shoot! We're unarmed!" Two Peacekeeper pilots — a male and female — come out with their hands up. Judging from traces of the accent, the guy is probably from the Capitol, not Two.

To my relief, Paylor orders everyone to stand down — I have no desire to see two unarmed individuals gunned down; not even Peacekeepers — though she does ask the pilots their purpose.

"Presidential orders," squeaks the woman — "girl" is more apt; in fact, Gale looks older than the two — who has an even stronger Capitol accent. "We were sent to bring a delivery to Peeta Mellark. 'A token of good faith from a mutual friend,' President Snow said."

"You do understand that we can't let you return to the Capitol, right?" Paylor looks evenly at the two, and they nod in resignation. At that, she orders them to be detained until further consideration.

Specialists scan the hovercraft to make sure there's no unpleasant surprise lying in wait. That leaves me to mull over the pilot's words.

_Mutual friend? That must mean Katniss. What kind of "token of good faith" would she agree to send? Finnick? Johanna? Effie? Unless Snow was being sarcastic and sent them in body bags…_

That last thought makes my blood run cold, and I wouldn't put it past him to do such a thing.

The scans show that there are no explosive or weapons in the vehicle, but simply a single person, who's alive from the looks of it. I decide to be the first one to enter the hovercraft, though there is a security detail behind me with guns at the ready.

It turns out that the person sitting calmly in a chair isn't one of victors captured from the arena, nor is she one of the Capitol citizens who helped us during the Games.

It's Annie Cresta.

~oOo~

They checked Annie over to make sure that she didn't have anything wrong with her. To everybody's surprise, she's in perfect physical condition apart from not seeing the sun for several weeks. However, the most surprising thing was how lucid she is, considering that her reputation has always been that of the crazy girl.

I decide to talk to Annie alone to make sure she's alright. She's sitting on a bench and absentmindedly twirling her hair, its wavy brown strands slipping through her fingers. That, plus the way her green eyes seem to focus on nothing in particular, is really the only indicator of her possible insanity.

"Hey, is it okay if I sit here?"

"Hi, Peeta. Go ahead," she says in a breezy, yet somewhat meek, manner.

I sit as far on the opposite side as I can, as if I may scare her away by being too close. "So, how are you doing?"

"Oh fine. Everybody has been very welcoming. I hear I'll be going to District Thirteen."

"Yeah. I'm sure you'll meet some familiar faces, and they'll find you something to do." I seriously can't say she'll enjoy it there. I'm hard pressed to find anyone who finds Thirteen enjoyable.

Some silence passes between us before Annie speaks:

"I take it you're curious about what went on during my captivity."

"Do… You want to talk about it?"

"Sure."

_Well, that's unexpected._ "Sure?"

Annies simply shrugs, "Doesn't make sense to keep things bottled up."

"Oh, okay."

"You probably want to know how Katniss is doing."

_She's good…_ "Yeah, I do."

"She's fine. Well, as fine as things allow. They completely furnished her cell and gave her full privacy. In the end, it really doesn't matter as she is out of cell during most of the day, only coming back during what I assume is the night. It shows how comfortable they are trying to make her by the way they torture Finnick and Johanna. Whenever she's in her cell, they do the tortures in a far separate room. When she's away, it's in full view of us."

"That must have been hard." _What kind of statement is that? Of course it was hard._

"It was hard, but I got used to it."

"How do you 'get used to it'?"

"Let me rephrase. It was hard to watch them, especially Finnick, get hurt. But the tortures themselves became something that I grew accustomed to.

"Granted, it wasn't like that in the beginning. I used to simply shut myself off whenever something bad happened. They even put me and Finnick in cells as far from each other as possible so that we were close enough to remain in sight but far enough not to be able to comfort each other.

"Anyways, Finnick was the one they would interrogate on top of punishing him. In contrast to Johanna, who was simply punished, he had loads of information, starting with the Rebellion itself and ending with all the secrets he obtained from those he slept with. Probably helped them find disloyal characters in the Capitol.

"Soon, I felt guilty. All though time, Finnick was there to always comfort me, and I never reciprocated. This time, he was the one suffering. So the best way I could give comfort was by staying with him. And to do that, I forced myself to watch as the tortures continued. By the second week, I could watch continuously. After a while, I turned my observations into a game."

"A… game?"

"Yes. Making it a game made staying with him more bearable. The game was to study the methods and figure out whenever Finnick's tortures were informational, or whether they were torturing him just to inflict pain for the sake of punishment."

She begins ticking things off from her fingers: "Simulating drowning: interrogation. Peeling off strips of skin: punishment. Chemical injection: interrogation. Repeated beatings: punishment. Sleep deprivation: interrogation. Electrocution… it went either way. And so on… You'd be amazed at the things one can do with a blowtorch. Not to mention the usefulness of certain parts of the body vs other parts. They would even send Finnick for medical treatment so the torture could be prolonged.

"Then there were the days when the guards would visit Finnick's or Johanna's cell. They fought back of course; at least at first. I think Johanna may have managed to break a guard's jaw. However, in the end, the guards would always overpower them and…"

She leaves her statement open to allow me to piece together the horrid puzzle on my own.

"Wait, even Finnick?"

"Peeta, this has little, if anything, to do with sex. It has to do with dominance. And to leave two strong victors as broken shells is probably the ultimate achievement of domination. A couple guards tried to do the same with me, but they were apprehended in time and executed for defying Snow's order to keep me unharmed.

"In any case, Johanna's tortures have kept fairly steady. However, Finnick's seemed to have picked-up a bit. Granted, there seems to be a line Snow doesn't want to cross. They've haven't castrated Finnick or mutilated the majority of his face, so they're still probably leaving the option open to be put him back on sale, which is probably why—"

"Stop right there. What do you mean by 'putting him back on sale'?"

Annie looks at me pityingly, as if I'm the most clueless kid in the world. "Do you really think that he enjoys sleeping his way through the Capitol? If a victor is considered attractive enough, Snow sells their body to the highest bidder, regardless of age difference or orientation compatibility. Refuse, and you will end up having anyone you care for killed off one by one."

_Why does this even surprise me? If we never did the Star-Crossed Lovers thing, could this have been either my or Katniss' fate?_

"I'm sorry, I-I didn't know."

"It's alright. When I first heard about it, I jumped to the same conclusions."

Trying to veer the conversation away from uncomfortable territories, I ask, "Do you know why they let you go?"

"I can think of two reasons. First is because Katniss had been performing so well for Snow, and that this was a little reward. Secondly… would simply be to break Finnick further.

"Before I was escorted out, they installed a jabberjay cage in Finnick's cell. When I was taken away, they made sure to make it look like they shot me once the door closed behind us. Immediately afterwards, I could hear the jabberjay screaming in my own voice…" Annie pauses and closes her eyes. "My poor Finnick, left alone with that damn bird to keep him company…"

She finally can't say any more and quietly shuts down. I tentatively wrap my arms around her; she first stiffens at my touch but gradually curls into me. No sobs; just silence.

I can't help but feel a deep sense of regret. _So this is the price they pay for not being picked up. If we would have just stayed together, there's a good chance everybody would have made it out. But now, they have to endure all these horrors._

"Don't worry. We will get them out. There will be a rescue mission, and we'll be all be together." My words are probably more of an attempt at consoling myself than Annie, but she still nods in response. I continue to repeat that mantra out loud as I rock her back and forth.

Under that sadness and hope that I feel, an overwhelming sense of anger coursing through me.

There are many horrific things that have made me wish for the Capitol's overthrow: The brutality of the Games. The deprivation of the districts while those in the Capitol actually drink stuff to make themselves puke. Thread whipping Gale and hanging my family. The hospital being targeted.

However, none of those have truly driven home how much Snow needs to meet an unpleasant end until Annie just told all these things to me. I honestly think I'll enjoy it immensely when I personally see Snow take his final breaths.

Hell, I think I may even pull the trigger.

~oOo~

We are preparing to leave when Pollux runs over to me. Due to the outfits the camera twins wear, making it even harder to tell them apart, I've taken to marking their shoulders with a "C" or "P". However, the thing I notice about him right now is how pale and drawn he is. Something's wrong.

"Pollux, what's up?" I ask, trying to keep the atmosphere casual.

Fortunately, Castor's with us and does a quick explanation. Apparently, Pollux was going around and finishing off some final footage of the district when he stumbled up the detention area. How he was not noticed I have no clue; same goes for back during the bombing. In any case, what he saw and heard disturbed him enough that he left a remote recording device behind to catch what was going on.

At that he brings up a device which apparently displays a live video and audio feed.

The footage is of the inside of the detention facility. The girl Peacekeeper is locked-up in her cell. However, her attention is on her male counterpart, who is kneeling in the middle of the room and surrounded by three rebel soldiers.

"… on guys, you don't have to do this. You're nice people right?" The Peacekeeper honestly looks scared out of his wits as he raises his hands in a placating gesture. That's when I notice the cuts all over his arms.

Chuckles emanate from the three rebels. One, in a vest with yellow highlights, speaks up. "Of course we are. We're the good guys, you see. The best. You, on the other hand, are the evil Peacekeeper."

"I didn't even intend on becoming one! My family was in debt. This was the only—"

"'My family was in debt!'" Yellow Vest interrupts in a falsetto tone. This earns more laughter from the guards. "Do you have any idea how pathetic you sound?"

"We can work this out. Please don't do this. Let's talk…"

"I'm more of an action man myself." With that, Yellow Vest pulls out a knife and stabs it into the Peacekeeper.

The Peacekeeper screams and curls up on the ground while clutching at his shoulder to wail, "WHY?"

"Why? Can you believe the nerve of some people? Why do you think? Your answer's outside."

"T-that wasn't me! I'm j-just a courier. I don't even have bomber training."

"Courier… Bomber… Peacekeeper's a Peacekeeper." He casually twirls the knife in his hand as he reaches down to grab his…subject.

In response, said subject keeps squirming around. "Please, d-don't do this… You don't have to—"

"You sound like a broken record; squirrely one at that. Guys, help me keep him still."

The other two rebel soldiers move to restrain the Peacekeeper but suddenly recoil in disgust.

"Aw, shit man. Look at that: he just pissed himself!" one of them remarks.

He points and nudges his buddy who simple chortles, "Haha, what a pussy…"

I can barely hear the Peacekeeper muttering repeatedly between sobs, "I want my mom…"

"What's that now?" Yellow Vest leans in with his hand cupped to his ear.

"I want my mom…"

"You'll have to. Speak. UP!" With that, he sends a powerful kick into the lower back.

"I WANT MY MOM! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"

"Hah! Will you listen to this? Somebody wants his mommy!"

"LEAVE HIM ALONE, ASSHOLES!" the girl screams.

That causes more chuckling from Yellow Vest. "Aw look, somebody's impatient. Don't worry, little lady. You'll get your turn. Speaking of turns…" He gestures with his knife. "Alright, who else wants their turn with this little piece of shit? Take turns holding him down."

Between them going in with the knife and the Peacekeeper screaming repeatedly for his mother, I feel that I've witnessed enough and motion for Pollux to shut off the device.

_I think I'm going to be sick…_ "Annie, please tell me they're looking for information."

"Nope; I believe they're just having fun." The casual manner in which she responds is almost as disturbing as what's confirmed to me.

Despite my wish for Snow and probably a couple of his key underlings to die horrible deaths, the wish does not apply to Peacekeepers in general, despite the fact that they are enemy combatants who will have to die in the droves if we are to win this war. I've met enough to know that not all are like Thread or the ones in Eleven. And it's not a Peacekeeper with rebel soldiers that I'm hearing; it's a scared kid being tortured by complete monsters.

As I look around, I see that everybody else is as horrified as I am; well, except for Annie. Even Gale, for all his hatred towards the Capitol, is looking on in disbelief and rage.

"Pollux, that's live right?" When he nods, I quickly continue: "Then we've already wasted a lot of time. Go to Paylor and show that to her."

He runs off even before I finish off my sentence, so I make sure to yell after him, "Let her know where it's happening however you can!"

I simply say to the rest of the guys, "I could probably use some backup. And directions." With that, all of us race towards the detention area.

As I approach the facility, which is just a little shack, a soldier at the door calmly approaches me and says, "I'm sorry sir, but this area is stri—" Chaff's fist in his face interrupts his speech, and Holmes rushes in to restrain him further.

_Seriously, how did Pollux get so close and stay undetected?_

By the time I reach the door, screams can be heard from inside; this time, decidedly female. Not wanting to waste any more time I yank the door open and barge in.

It's clear that we are too late for the guy. He's still alive — barely — but crumpled and twitching on the ground. Blood is pooling from his crudely slashed throat as well as various lacerations covering his body. The stench of urine's in the air, and I can see various severed appendages lying around.

Seeing the girl curled in the corner makes my stomach turn and blood boil even more. Her injuries are nowhere near the extent of her partner — simply rapidly-forming bruises covering her body — but that's not has me bothered. What has me bothered is the way her uniform has been roughly stripped away… or how the guards are quickly hitching up their pants.

"What," I say through clenched teeth as I try to keep my voice even, "the fuck is this?"

"Hah! Looks like Mellark here has a bit of a potty mouth on him," says Yellow Vest. I guess he's the leader of this merry band of monsters.

I ignore his taunt. "Let me repeat myself: what is going on here?"

"District justice," he says with a shrug.

"Justice?" I look around incredulously as venom drips off my tongue. "You call this justice?"

"Yeah, I do. And I don't see how this is your concern."

"How about it being my concern?" Paylor says, as she steps into the room with Pollux and a full security detail. At that, the three sadists suddenly lose their casual disposition and stand at attention. The guard that Chaff punched in the face is added to the line-up.

As Paylor is questioning everybody, I kneel down next to the dying Peacekeeper—no, boy. Despite being so close to death, he seems to be vaguely aware of my presence. It's like the damn campfire all over again. I offer my hand towards his — the one that still has its fingers attached — and he takes a weak grasp of it. Looking up, I see Annie, who apparently followed us here, in the process of comforting the girl and helping cover her up. Before long, the grip in my hand loosens, and I look up to see eyes completely glazed over and blood ceasing to flow from his neck.

I close the boy's eyes and stand up to see Yellow Vest in the process of pleading his case to Paylor.

"Commander, we were just blowing off some steam. The bombings, the Capitol; it's got us all riled up. You know how it is…"

Judging from the way she's looking at the surviving Peacekeeper, I'm suspecting that last bit's a poor choice of words.

"Yes, I can clearly see how it is." She turns to a soldier who I assume is her second-in-command and says, "Pearson, have these four escorted out to the square, with each one given five lashes."

_Five lashes? The hell? Gale got way more than them combined!_

I can tell that the perps understand the amount to be negligible as well, judging from the slightest of smirks that the ringleader has. However, that disappears once Paylor adds:

"Also, assemble a firing squad that will be at the ready once the lashes have been dispensed."

At that, the color drains from their faces. As they are escorted out, one of them actually has the nerve to yell out, "You can't do this! You said it yourself that you need more people in the fight!"

Paylor's face hardens when she retorts, "I need soldiers, not sadists."

"What about me? I didn't do anything," protests the one who was on guard duty.

"That's the thing," Paylor spits, looking as if she is ready to add another punch to the guys face. "You did nothing. You could have rushed to get help, and maybe this kid here would still be alive. Instead, you decided to cover for the monsters. And now, you are distancing yourself. Besides monsters, I can't abide cowards in this force.

"Get them out of my sight."

~oOo~

The square is completely crowded as the convicted are tied to posts set up. I, as well as the rest of the group from Thirteen, am seated with Paylor and her higher-ups on a podium facing said posts. Annie and the Peacekeeper girl are also with us; Paylor gave her the option, which she understandably took, of watching her tormentors executed.

We watch as the last of the lashes are dispensed and the firing squad — consisting of four marksmen per target — comes in. Paylor decided to show some mercy and withhold the lashes from the guy who sat things out; he's still going to be shot though. As the squad members face their backs to us and prepare to fire, I muse on a bit of irony: the monsters, who so were completely high and mighty over those they were tormenting, are now practically gibbering in terror. And there's not a drop of sympathy to be had from me.

After the execution is carried out, Paylor stands up to do a speech, with Castor and Pollux recording. She actually demanded that we air everything — the torture and attempted rape, the punishment handed out, and now this speech — even if we have to circumvent authority in the process. She said a message needs to be sent out.

Paylor doesn't waste time getting to the point: "I understand that there are times where we can't take prisoners. I even understand that there are times when we have to resort to extreme measures to get information. However, what just occurred was neither. It was monstrous sadism, pure and simple. It was the type of evil one expects from the Capitol and the Hunger Games. If we allow ourselves to stoop to that level, then we might as well lay down our arms. Because what good is a revolution when the replacements are no better than the tyrants before?

"Show the Capitol that we are better than that. Show the Capitol that we are better than them."

There is no applause to her speech; then again, it just wouldn't seem right. However, I can see people nodding their heads and murmuring in assent. If there was any doubt as to Paylor's capability as a leader, her actions today and well as this speech just dashed it to bits. And I feel my respect for her reaching significant highs.

As we all file out of the square, I can't help but stop Paylor to let her know something: "Commander, if we win this and you ever decide to become president, I want you to know that you will have my full and unconditional support."

All she does at that is chuckle and wave me off. I'm about to tell her that I'm serious about my statement, but stop when I see Boggs. He doesn't say anything, but the look of extreme alarm on his face conveys a simple statement that suddenly makes me really uneasy:

" _Don't let Coin hear you say that."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this story is on the side of the Rebellion, and there is little reason that Snow's little despotic regime should still be standing. That doesn't not mean that things are all roses.
> 
> This is war. Barring the fighting itself and sometimes unpleasant things that may need to be done to achieve objectives, it is inevitable that there are also going to be senseless incidents of cruelty from both sides. Even in the most professional military like the US Armed Forces, you still have bad seeds that slip by and cause atrocities; note that I would like to state that such incidents for nations like the US are in still in the sharp minority.
> 
> The thing is, the rebel side is nowhere near as professional as the US'; the Syrian Civil War would be a better equivalent to the Rebellion, and one does have to look hard to see atrocities from both sides. So with Peeta's more proactive approach, he's more likely to come across or learn more about incidents that would have also occurred in canon: examples being as civilian massacres, rape, non-interrogation-torture, and the utilization of child soldiers.
> 
> On the flip side, not all Peacekeepers are thugs who get their jollies from putting bullets into the skulls of the elderly. Sure, the good portion of them are a pretty brutal bunch, and "Just Following Orders" is no excuse; then there are fanatics like Thread. However, there is likely to be a good portion during this war that simply has a bad luck of being on the wrong side or drank too much of the Capitol koolaid. Sometimes they're scared kids, sometimes they legitimately feel that their lives or sense of honor are under threat, and sometimes they can easily be reasoned with to surrender or defect. What is constant is they're human.
> 
> Though going back to Capitol atrocities, there's no way around this: rape, be it sanctioned or simply guards having "fun", is likely to be a major element of the captive process. And Peeta was most likely not exempt during his canon captivity.


	11. Dreams

Paylor is adamant that a message of restraint needs to be sent out, and she's aggravated that Plutarch doesn't wish to air the footage. Plutarch insists that sending it out would prove to be demoralizing to the Rebellion and would give the Capitol fodder to use. As they argue back and forth, Boggs decides to lay down a middle ground with the thought that while the message is important, showing the full torture scene would make Capitol-affiliated strongholds less likely to surrender and more likely to go out in a blaze of glory, which would incur serious casualties on our side. What's notable is that nobody is asking for Coin's opinion.

After some back and forth it's decided to air all of the execution and speech, as well as when Paylor and I walk in on the monsters. Special focus is put on me and Annie comforting the Peacekeepers. The actual torture and attempted rape is not going to be included. Next is where we try to convince Command to let us air the video comes when we arrive in Thirteen… which should be fun.

Farewells are exchanged before we head off. Though after everybody else had left, and I'm about board the hovercraft, someone stops me. It's the girl Peacekeeper; Calpurnia I believe her name is. After the execution, Paylor decided that she was not a threat and decided to have her be a personal assistant.

She stays looking at the ground when she says, "I just wanted to thank you for being there for Julian when…"

I stop her before she goes any further, "You don't have to. It was just the right thing to do."

"But don't you hate us?"

I shake my head. "I hate what the Capitol represents. I hate those in charge of it. I hate its definition of 'entertainment'. However, I can't hate its people. I'm more than a bit frustrated with their lifestyle, but I still can't hate them."

"Oh… Still, thanks." as she turns to walk away, a thought comes to me.

"Hey wait for a moment!"

"Yes?"

"Did Julian have any personal possessions on him?"

"Well, yeah." She brings out a wallet and identification tags. "Since I was his closest acquaintance, they gave everything that was salvageable to me."

I take a look through the wallet, and find a series of pictures. The first is of Julian with his family; he's grinning as he stands next to whom I assume to be his mother while younger children cling to his legs. As I look at his smiling face, the image of vacant eyes and a slashed throat briefly replace it in my mind.

Once I manage to banish that thought away, _for now_ , I simply ask Calpurnia, "Do you mind if I keep these?" Besides the picture, I gesture towards the identification tags.

There's some hesitation, but she doesn't rebuff me outright. "What for?"

"As a reminder to keep my priorities straight and not lose myself in the upcoming storm."

As cheesy as that statement is, Calpurnia seems satisfied by my answer, handing over the tags while saying, "Alright then. Though can you do one favor?"

"What kind?" I ask, as I give her back the wallet.

"After this war is over, give those items to his family."

"What if I don't make it?"

"You'll make it. You seem to be a survivor."

There's something about that statement that strikes me as slightly hilarious, but I keep it to myself. "Alright, I promise I'll do so."

It should be a fun meeting… not. But a promise is a promise.

"Thanks, and have a safe trip." With that, she runs off to catch up with Paylor.

Once I get onto the hovercraft and it becomes airborne, I manage to take a quick shower and put on some pajamas — if Coin is expecting me look presentable when we land, she can suck it — before going to the observation room. As I sit myself down on a cushy sofa, fatigue takes a hold of me almost immediately. I realize that I haven't actually slept any since before we took off from Thirteen; just a couple power naps here and there. I guess with no reason to be active, my body's deciding to cash in its dues.

So I decide to allow myself to drift off into not-so-blissful unconsciousness for the trip, knowing full well what kind of dreams will await me.

* * *

I'm stumbling through the forest. A light flickers in the darkness. Before I can shout out a warning, a scream echoes out. I run in its direction only to stumble upon a dying campfire. Next to it, the tribute from District Eight is in her death throes. _Why can't I remember her name?_ I kneel next to her and clasp her hand in a comforting manner.

"No matter how many times you do this, she's still going to die." I look up towards the source of the voice to see Cato leaning up against a tree and examining his sword. When I glare at him, he lets out a big laugh.

"Really now, don't be like that. Yeah, I may have been the one who stuck her with my sword, but you had plenty of opportunities to stop me. Instead you were more concerned about maintaining your cover. You also could have saved _him_."

I look back down to see that the girl is now Julian, his formerly-white Peacekeeper outfit crimson with blood.

"You knew something was wrong the moment that video began, but you just had to watch when things got going really good. If you were just a bit more assertive, he probably would still be alive."

The mixture of seeing Julian's mutilated corpse and listening to Cato's words sends me running as fast as I can from the campfire. Cato calls after me, "Oh come on! You can't leave now. The fun's just beginning!"

I suddenly trip over a slightly-yielding object. Turns out that it's the girl from Five, now succumbing to the effects of nightlock poison. She spasms and arches her back as her fingers contort and eyes roll to the back of her head. Berry-stained spittle runs down her chin. I turn away only to face Allie from Six, her yellowed morphling-wracked skin contrasting with the crimson of the bite wounds she sustained in her attempt to save me…

I just keep running. There is light ahead, which means that I will be clear of this damn forest. When I reach the forest's edge, what greets me is field of still-burning bodies from the hospital. Most are crisp and blackened, their brittle bones crumbling in the flames.

I don't want to go through them, but the forest is no longer an option, with the vegetation becoming progressively thicker and the howling of wolves getting closer. So I trudge on through, attempting ignoring the wailing that raises up around me. No matter how careful I am, I wind up stepping on somebody, my feet crunching effortlessly through their bodies. Limbs, torsos, skulls; I crush them all.

Finally, I clear the field and reach a deserted square. It takes me a while to realize that this is Twelve's square. Seeing that there is nothing pursuing me right now, I allow myself collapse to the ground.

_Maybe I can finally get some rest._

"Pathetic…"

_Nonononono… not her… not now…_

"Look at me… LOOK AT ME!" I look up at my mother, swinging above me from the gallows with my dad and brothers. While her head is tilted at an odd angle, she's still glaring upon me with that familiar sneer, derision dancing in her eyes. "Well, aren't you going to stand up when your mother addresses you? Or are you are as obstinate as you are weak?"

Despite every ounce of common sense screaming at me to do otherwise, I stand to face her.

"Hmm… Maybe you aren't so hopeless after all. Wait, what am I saying? Of course you're hopeless. See what you have wrought, you little shit? A wide swatch of death and destruction created in your wake." Dad looks like he wants to counter my mother's statements but can't seem to find his voice.

So she's free to continue on: "And the worse part of it is, you are too weak to do the killing yourself. All these deaths have been out of sheer incompetence on your part or simply because you were too cowardly to save the others in time."

"No…" I manage to weakly croak out.

"Don't try to deny it! Everything about you reeks of weakness and deceit. You are just some afterbirth attempting to pass yourself off as huma—"

"SHUT UP!" a voice rings out, silencing my mother in the process. However, it's not my voice. An arm gently wraps around my shoulder as Cato soothingly speaks into my ear, "There there… Don't listen to her. She's just wanting to bring you down. We on the other hand." He spins me around to face him. "We're your real friends."

Cato's smiling at me; at least as much as a person missing most of his face can smile. Besides the lack of skin on said face, blood flows freely from an empty eye socket. He's also twirling an arrow in his free hand, with bits of eye, skull fragments, and brain matter flinging off of it. Behind him, all the deaths I'm responsible for stand together in some strange macabre show of solidarity.

"Besides," he chirps cheerfully, "when you think about it, you actually played an active role in _my_ demise. In any case, fret not; we're here for you. And we're the only ones who truly understand you.

"Of course," he huffs, "it's hard to help when you keep disappearing like the way you do. Something must be done about that."

Everybody advances, each person holding something different out for me to take from them: Eight hold out a sword, Julian has a knife, Five carries a handful of nightlock, Allie holds a syringe full of morphling, and those from the hospital have a canister of oil.

However, Cato impatiently waves them off. "No no no! What are you guys doing? This is Peeta Mellark we're talking about. He can't settle for something as generic as that. I know a better option." He proceeds to stick his finger into his eye socket and uses the blood to draw an X over my right eye; I can't seem to make myself move away for the whole process. Finally, he hands his arrow off to somebody behind me before turning me around to face that person.

"Katniss?"

She doesn't respond but simply notches the arrow. Around this time, minor quakes seem to be rippling through the environment. I try to move away, but Cato wraps his arms around my torso and prevents me from effectively fleeing.

"Hey now, where are you going? This is the best way. Once she releases that arrow, you'll be free from all this pain and suffering."

Katniss pulls back the arrow and aims directly at the X. I swear I hear my name being called, and the quakes seem be getting stronger. However, Cato keeps me fixed on the spot.

"Katniss," I plead, "you don't need to do thi—"

"Shhh… Just let her to release that arrow. Then it shall be sweet release, and we can all finally be toget—"

"PEETA!"

* * *

The dreamscape shatters as I wake up to Gale looming over me and shaking my shoulders roughly. It's a fairly good thing that I recognized him as fast as I did and that my dream wasn't one of the violent ones. Otherwise things may have ended a bit… awkwardly.

"What the hell was that, Mellark?" he yells. With wide eyes and a drained complexion, he looks extremely shaken. _Did he also just use my first name earlier?_

"Just another dream," I mumble. The dreams are bad enough without people, much less Gale, fretting over me. "Also, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Loom in that manner over a sleeping victor. It's liable to get you punched in the face… or worse," calmly interjects Annie, who's lounging on the sofa across from me.

Gale, who's already a bit on edge, seems slightly perturbed by her. "I'll keep that in mind. Annie actually told me to let you ride it out." He shakes his head. "But seriously, how could I? You were twitching and muttering very, very weird things; it was seriously freaky. Not to mention how clammy you look right now. My siblings have nightmares, but I've never seen them react that badly. So how the hell do you call that 'just another dream'?"

He's never seen me sleep before, has he? Makes sense, as we're not roommates since Gale's holed-up with the rest of his family, and I got a small spot to myself. Hell, I don't even stay there anymore. Now most of the time, I sleep on a couch in the library; I even have permission to do so.

I look over to Annie, who just shrugs. That shrug conveys a simple message: _"He's not a victor. No matter how much you try to explain it to him, at some level he won't understand."_

Maybe, but if this war is going to go the way I think it's going to go, I think the victors will start having some dreamtime company. Especially since Gale seems intent on having an active role in this conflict.

"Let's just say it's a 'gift' from the Arena," Annie remarks.

"That tells me nothing," Gale grumbles.

"Well, that's because it _is_ very hard to explain," I concede. "Tell you what: after this war is over, assuming that we both survive and you still have questions, I'll try my best to explain things to you."

It's clear that Gale finds our answers unsatisfactory, but instead of pressing the issue, he asks me something related: "So… how do you cope?"

Question's innocent enough. "Besides minimizing sleep?" I dryly quip. "Well, different victors cope in different ways. Some turn to drink or drugs. Others manage to find a constructive hobby. Some… just lose themselves." I pick my last words carefully. I think Annie knows I'm talking about her, but she makes no motion of acknowledgement.

"In my case, keeping busy while I'm awake helps serve as a distraction. At home, I'd bake; in Thirteen I focus on my job. However, probably the more effective measure I would take is painting out my dreams; painting somehow seems to transfer stuff out of my mind. Of course, since paint is considered a 'wasteful commodity' in Thirteen, I have to make do with sketching."

"I don't think I ever seen any of your paintings."

"Well, no offense, I don't think you really cared for me enough to concern yourself about them."

That earns a grimace from him. "None taken and you're right. I really didn't care what happened with you."

I dismiss his concerns with a wave. "I myself really didn't care that you didn't care. In any case… are you sure you want to hear the last coping method?"

His expression becomes quite guarded. "I think I have the general idea, but go ahead."

I'm not sure how to word this delicately without offending him, so I straight up say, "Sleeping with Kantiss."

A brief shadow crosses the hunter's face, and he scowls. Surprisingly, a hissy fit isn't thrown. "Go on…"

"During the Victory Tour and right before the Quell. Katniss and I slept together. It allowed us to comfort each other when one or the other was having a nightmare."

"Probably made it easier to spin the baby lie as well," Gale mutters.

I sigh, "Maybe, but I think you're misunderstanding me. When I say we slept together, I mean we were sleeping in the same bed."

The scowl fades as comprehension begins to dawn. "You mean you two didn't—"

"Nope."

"Not even—"

"The only physical contact we had was either the action of waking the other person up or the simple fact that we were next to each other while sleeping. Maybe there was a hug here and there."

He looks completely taken aback, as if he were seeing me in a new light. After what seems like several minutes of pondering, he replies, "Must have been hard."

"Hmm?"

"You spent the whole time sharing a bed, and things never went past the point of just sleeping. That must have been the ultimate cock-tease."

I should take offense at that. I mean, Katniss needed help, and I couldn't turn her down, especially since I had demons of my own. It was a mutually-beneficial action born out of friendship and shared struggles. Gale's comment insinuates that I was at some level conflicted due to wanting things to progress to another level. It should be insulting. It…

It makes me bark out a laugh. "Oh, you have _no_ idea…"

That sends both of us into another fit of laughter.

When I calm down a bit, I find it necessary to add, "Still, the fact that we were there for each other was more than better than nothing."

That sobers him up. "So you say Katniss also suffered nightmares?"

"Yeah… Her screaming and thrashing in her sleep was a common occurrence. But again," I add upon seeing Gale's expression, "we all find ways to cope. In her case, it's hunting."

He nods a bit, this time seeming to be satisfied. Though out of formality, I decide to ask, "Anything else on your mind?"

To my surprise, Gale suddenly looks very nervous, something I'm seriously not used to.

Finally, he asks hesitantly, "Do you, uh, have any of your sketches with you?"

Normally I would consider this a private matter. But, for some reason, Gale legitimately seems to want to connect. Maybe I'm the only peer he has left from Twelve, or he possibly sees me as some sort of connection to Katniss. Whatever the reason is, I admit that this new attention isn't exactly unwelcome; it's sure as hell better than the scowls he would throw at me between the Games. So I decide to entertain his thoughts by bringing out my sketchbook, which is portable enough to carry with me wherever I go.

"Now that you mention it, how much time do we have left?"

Gale checks the clock. "We still have about a couple hours to go." _Wow, I really wasn't out for that long, was I?_

"In which case, would you like to see me sketch out my most recent dream?"

He looks a bit taken aback by my offer but still nods. "Uh… sure. If you don't mind."

"Can I watch also?" Annie asks.

"Sure." I scoot to the middle of the sofa so that Gale and Annie can sit on either side of me. Once they appear to be settled in, I begin drawing.

I merge the whole first part of the dream onto one page: the girl from Eight turning into Julian, Cato laughing, Five and Allie, the field of burning corpses, and my mother's sneering face. On the next page, Cato in front of all the tributes and people in Eight who died either indirectly by my hand or through sheer incompetence on my part. Finally, the last one is of Katniss pointing the arrow directly at my face.

To his credit, Gale doesn't say anything during the whole process, though I can feel him staring intently at my work as if it were game he's stalking. I can also feel Annie doing the same thing. Afterwards, I hand Gale the book so the both of them can take a look through as I move to the opposite sofa. He methodically flips through it, though I can see him wince and grow pale at certain points; no doubt at the drawings of Katniss dead in various ways.

Finally he hands the book over to Annie, who begins to look through it at a slower pace. When she gets done, I casually ask both of them, "So… what do guys think?"

Annie is unreadable as usual and simply says, "They're beautiful." Due to the way she calmly described torture to me earlier, I seriously hope she's just referring to my drawing skills.

"Yeah…" Gale, in contrast, seems quite a bit shaken and is looking constantly at his boots. "You, uh, really know how to pack in the… details."

_Well that's one way of saying it: details…_

"I noticed that, heh, you managed to include me in there as well." He's probably referring to the sketch of him crumpled in a bloodied heap in front of Thread, with the background consisting of my family swinging from the gallows while wolf mutts feed on Delly, the Undersees, and various other town residents. Finally, he sighs and concludes lamely, "I… I don't think I can comprehend what you go through."

"Honestly, I'm glad that you don't. It's not something I'd wish on any decent person."

He snorts. "A decent person? I resented and, I'll admit, thought some pretty shitty things about you just because we love the same girl. Though you _were_ pretty hard to hate whenever we talked in-person."

That makes me chuckle. "I think I can forgive you for that; I've forgiven others for far worse. And it's not like I myself wasn't jealous of you. The point is that you provided for your family and Katniss', and you just sat through my sob story. I don't see how that doesn't qualify you as a decent person. I bit hotheaded and lacking in charm," I cheerfully rib, which elicits another snort, "but still decent, if not more."

"Dammit Pe—Mellark, keep that up, and I may actually start liking you." He turns his head a bit towards Annie. "And you go through the same thing? The dreams, I mean."

She shrugs. "Well, I can't draw, and different people and environments are involved. But, more or less, yes."

Gale doesn't say anything for a while, but when he finally looks up I can finally see a bit of the hunter I'm so familiar with. In other words: he's pissed. Just as well; after a while, depressed Gale stops being novel and starts being pretty unnerving.

Since there's still an hour left, I decide to settle back into the sofa. As I let sleep take me again, I realize something: sharing those pictures with those two seemed to remove a significant burden. Gale may not understand what goes through a victor's mind, but that did not stop him from trying. Also, Annie may have a couple screws loose, but it doesn't change the fact that we have a lot in common.

In the end, I think I can definitely count them both as my friends.

When I slip back under, there are no dreams waiting for me.


	12. Sleeping Beauty

Of course it was all too good to last.

My dreamless bliss is brought to a cold, screeching halt by a cascade of ice water on my face.

"Gah!" There is much sputtering, and some flailing around, as I attempt to regain my bearings.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

I push my hair back and turn to glare towards the rapidly-clarifying source of the statement. "What the hell was that for, Haymitch?"

He's holding a pitcher in his hands and a look of extreme smug satisfaction on his face. "I've always wanted to do that. Pretty karmic if you ask me."

"It wasn't even me who woke you up that way; it was Ka—"

"Don't care."

I glare at him a bit more before taking off my soaked shit and using the dry portion to remove the water from my face and hair. "Fine. Anyways, I take it you're telling me to get ready for our landing so we can meet our esteemed leader."

A chuckle emanates from him. "Yeah, I think we're past that point now…"

Before I can ask what he means by that, I take a look at my surroundings and realize one thing: I'm in my room in Thirteen, not on the hovercraft. Which means that I probably slept through the welcoming reception. _Crap._

Haymitch seems to notice my little realization and grins. "Catch on quickly."

I ignore that jab. "How long was I out?" Something else is niggling away at me, but I can't seem to put my finger on it.

"Oh, I'd say about six…"

"Huh, that's a bit more than usu—"

"-teen hours."

"WHAT? Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Believe me, we tried. Never seen any victor sleep so soundly; you were deader to the world than those sacks of flour you loved carrying. I was going to wake you this way earlier but Annie would have none of it; she said you deserved your rest."

"I'm in trouble, aren't I."

"Surprisingly, no. Can't say Coin's happy, but she was impressed enough with your performance back in Eight that you were given a bit of leeway." _Whew…_ "Though you _are_ expected to report to Command ASAP. Which is why I woke you; I suspect that sixteen hours is enough, and the sooner you report in, the better. You don't want to keep her waiting."

"Fair enough," I sigh. At least I feel invigorated now.

I'm about to tell Haymitch to scram, so that I can get dressed, when I finally figure out the thought that has been eating away at me.

"Haymitch…"

"Yeah?"

"How did I get here?"

At my query, his content grin widens into a smile. It isn't a warm smile either, but one that mischievously knows. It's a smile that revels in trouble. I'm beginning to suspect that I won't like the answer.

"I thought you'd never ask…

"I actually wanted to leave you in the hovercraft when they parked it. It'd be fucking hilarious to see you to wake up in a dark and locked-up vehicle." Haymitch sighs. "But, alas, there were dissenting opinions from the others. So we had to forgo that idea."

"I'm sure it was such a great loss," I respond tartly.

He nods, selectively oblivious to my sarcasm. "It was indeed. So I bet you're curious as to _how_ you got here."

I don't like that tone, and now I really know that I won't like the answer. _Okay, you don't need to know. Don't encourage him._ "A bit, but it's no big de—"

"How about this then? You throw out a name, and I'll tell you whether you're correct or not."

It's clear he's not going to let up, so I decide to play along for a bit. _Maybe he'll just get tired and go away._ "Uh, Boggs?"

"Had to report to Coin. Same goes for all the other soldiers and higher-ups."

"Pollux?"

"Film crew was also too busy going over things with Plutarch."

 _This is bad. This is real bad._ "Chaff. There was no reason for him to report to anybody, and he's more than strong enough carry me with no problem."

"Well you're right about that." I breathe a sigh of relief. _Okay, so it wasn't—_ "He just didn't want to. In fact, he agreed that we should have left you in the hovercraft."

_Dammit._

"Annie?" By now, I can't keep the desperation from creeping in my voice. I don't care who brought me here. It could be anybody. Anybody but _him_.

Haymitch just looks at me in a deadpan manner that asks, _"Really?"_

"I, uh, sleepwalked."

He's about to respond but pauses a bit to consider my answer before continuing. "Actually that would be pretty impressive, but wrong again."

"Welp," I say, throwing up my hands in the process, "guess we'll never know then."

"You're forgetting somebody."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are…" he trills in a sing-song manner.

I shake my head furiously, as if it would banish my mentor away. "No." _Hell no. Just, no…_

"Yes." With that, he gleefully presses a couple buttons on my room's information console, which projects an image.

It is of Gale carrying me out of the hovercraft, with me draped limply across his shoulders. I can tell he's trying to salvage some dignity by attempting an expression of aloof stoicism, but it simply comes out looking like a cross between a bemused scowl and exasperated grimace. As Haymitch suggested, I look completely dead to the world, with my jaw slackly hanging open. Worse, one can easily see the line of drool dribbling out of the corner of my mouth, down my chin… and down Gale's arm.

I know that Gale and I put our past behind us, and I went so far as to label him a friend on the ride back, but this is seriously pushing things. _What does he think of me right now?_

As I gaze in mortification, another horrid bout of realization takes a hold of me. "How were you able to bring this up on the _public_ console?"

I've not seen Haymitch be this cheerful since… ever. "Unfortunately I can't take credit. Castor took the picture, and then Chaff got this great idea. So the two of them went to Beetee, and in no time at all…"

I cradle my face in my hands. "Please don't tell me…"

"Nah, I think I will. I doubt that there's a single person in Thirteen who's unfamiliar with that image. You two are projected _all_ over the hallways and in the dining hall." He turns to walk out, but decides to stop at the door to drop off one last parting shot: "Personally, I think it livens the place up quite a bit." With that he leaves, his laughs fading through the closed door.

~oOo~

Sure enough, there's not a single place in Thirteen that lacks the damn photo. When I get to Command, some actually have the gall to snicker, but I ignore them.

The visit with Coin goes about as well as expected. She congratulates me on my performance, though was a bit leery of my impromptu decision-making; I really don't know how to respond to that, so I just let her talk.

Apparently, the propo sent out succeeded in reinvigorating the districts. Already, positive results are coming in from the majority of the districts in the wake of the broadcast. This convinces Coin to schedule further field visits. I'm also informed that Gale's performance was a big hit as well, and that he now has a position in Command, though he's currently allowed recuperation.

Less amicable are our exchanges about the medical conditions in the districts. Coin argues that they can't spare expensive equipment all the time. I counter that more people are going to end up dying from sickness than from combat, which will put a dent in our ability to fight. Finally there is a concession to send some stuff out to improve sanitation and logistics; however, medicine and such is still held back. Considering the conditions I've observed firsthand, it's better than nothing.

Just as nasty is the debate to air Paylor's message. After a long and bitter argument back and forth, Coin finally approves the broadcast of message edited to Bogg's compromise.

While I do feel a strong sense of accomplishment by winning — or at least reaching a compromise — I have a feeling that each victory I have in Command makes me more and more disliked by the president. Feeling's mutual.

~oOo~

After getting checked up in the medical ward, I wait until _Reflection_ period to go to the Hawthornes' place. While I've met them a few times to check on my niece and say hi to Rory — we've actually known each other for a while through friendship with the Cartwrights — this is the first time I've actually gone to their quarters. Still, it's the best way I can corner Gale so I can talk to him; I think he's avoiding me.

Sure enough, he's the one who answers the door. Just as predictably, he immediately slams it shut, but not before giving me a harsh scowl. I sigh. _So much for friendship…_

I'm about to leave when I hear some muffled arguing, followed by Hazelle opening the door; her reception's considerably warmer.

"Hello Peeta. Sorry about Gale's behavior." She throws a scowl behind her; it's as if the Seam hones the practice of scowling into an art form. "He's just a bit flustered over the recent… publicity you two have been getting."

That earns a grimace from me. "Don't worry, Ms. Hawthorne; I understand. I can always come back another time."

She scoffs at that and beckons me inside. "Nonsense. Come on in." Not wishing to get into some debate, I dutifully comply with her wishes, despite what my surly compatriot may wish.

I'm barely inside when someone squeals out, "Peeta!" and, within a few seconds, a five-year-old bundle of energy slams into me, nearly knocking me over in the process.

"Posy!" I laugh as I regain my balance and proceed to pick her up. "Look at you; someone's been growing up fast and strong."

Sure enough, the consistent Thirteen diet means that she no longer has the skinny Seam look but actually a bit of that chubbiness that should be inherent in kids her age. Rory and Vick, who are seated on a couch and waving at me, also seem to be taking to their increased food supply quite well. Though in their case, it's manifesting itself in robustness; Rory has always been a bit robust from prior school gymnastics, but the current diet adds a significant amount of mass to him. By now, the Hawthornes look healthier than many merchants.

As I carry Posy around, I nod towards Gale, who's seated at a table; he begrudgingly returns the nod with that scowl still on his face. _This may take a while._

I turn to Hazelle, "So how's Beth doing?" By the time I got re-reaped, a name still wasn't given for my newborn niece, and the Hawthornes had no idea what it was. So it was agreed between us that we name her after her late mother.

"She's doing fine. Sleeping right now, and it probably won't be for another hour before she wakes up." Looking at my incredulous face — baby sleep schedules, or lack thereof, are still a mystery to me — Hazelle gives me a small conspiratorial smile. "After four kids, one get's a good idea of what to predict."

"Peeeetaaa…" Posy tugs at my hair, earning a sharp reprimand from her mother. "Do you want to see what I'm making for show-and-tell tomorrow?"

"Sure," I put her down, and she proceeds to grab my hand and drag me over to the middle of the room, where sheets of paper and crayons lay strewn all over the floor.

"I'm making pictures!" she chirps happily, holding up two colorful drawings for me to see. "Here's Gale with his bow. And here's you with your fire wings."

For someone her age, she's actually pretty talented. "These are good. In a few years, I bet you'll be an awesome artist."

"Thank you." Posy blushes and giggles as she grabs a third sheet. "And this one is you and Gale."

My smile freezes on my rapidly-draining face as I gaze at her work-in-progress; sure enough, it's me being carried out. I glance over to see that my counterpart's gone pale as well.

"It's like the old fairy tales," she continues, completely oblivious. "Gale the prince, and you Sleeping Beauty."

_For all that's good and just in this world…_

Gale slams his head down on the table — repeatedly — while Rory and Vick chortle from their spot and Hazelle clasps her hand over her mouth; it looks suspiciously like she's stifling something.

_Kill me now._

"Posy," I say as diplomatically as possible, "how about this picture be our little secret."

A small frown appears on her face. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, it's very… well done. But aren't you planning on drawing the rest of your family?"

"Yeah."

"You probably want to explain your wonderful pictures, right?" She nods. "Well, it wouldn't be fair if you take time from the other kids' show-and-tell."

"I guess not."

"Well, if you just do three instead of four, you can explain all you want. You already have these two great drawings of me and Gale in action; no need to repeat things with us  together. Instead you can have the third drawing be your family. Make sense?"

Posy perks up at that logic. "Yeah!"

_Crisis averted._

I look back at Gale to see that him motioning me to sit at the table. So, after wishing Posy luck, I walk over and pull up a seat opposite from him.

"Nice save. Never in my life have I been more thankful for your bullshitting skills," he mutters so the other kids can't hear.

"Thanks. Imagine what would happen if it went public, especially with that little analogy of hers." Both of us shudder at the implication.

"So you wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Yeah. Look, I'm sorry about pretty much being the cause for this whole debacle. And for drooling on you."

Gale sighs. "Well, it's not like this is going to your advantage either. So, uh… ss-sor…" He frowns and pauses a bit before attempting to continue. _Sounds like somebody's having trouble spitting out a certain word._ "Um, sor—"

I stop him before he embarrasses himself further. "You don't have to say anything; I understand, and it's all cool. Truce?" I hold out a hand.

He lets out a long breath of relief, before taking it. "Sure."

We spend some time just sitting there, before I say, "So I hear that Command has taken quite a liking to you."

"I guess you could say that…" He has quite a bit of a sour look on him when the subject is mentioned, which surprises me.

"What, you're not happy? I thought you wanted to contribute directly to the Rebellion."

"Yeah, to fight. But they want me to do propos. Propos!" By now, Gale actually looks fairly distressed. "You of all people should know that talking in front of crowds isn't my strong suit."

"That speech you did at the hospital was pretty good."

"I don't even know where that came from!" he all but screams, any semblance of decorum being flung to the wind. His brothers chortle a bit more over that reaction, though they are silenced pretty quickly by a stern look from Hazelle.

Gale does have a point. It's not like every propo is going to be an action scene, and people can only take so many broody scowls. However, I have an idea: "What if I coach you?"

My suggestion seems to take him by surprise. "What?"

"You heard me; I help coach you in looking good for the propos. Learn to say the right things to an audience, react to the cameras in a comfortable manner, and so on…"

"You'd really help me?" He looks slightly suspicious of the offer, which is just ridiculous.

"Well, we _are_ in this together. You looking good makes me look good." He still seems unconvinced, so I add with a sigh, "Think of it initially as a way of repaying you for tolerating my-heavy-drooling-self on your shoulders. Afterwards, we could probably work something out."

Gale's eye's narrow at my rationale. He knows I'm purposefully invoking the Seam's philosophy of unpaid debts, and the idea of a townie being so familiar with it — not to mention utilizing it in an advantageous manner — probably rubs him the wrong way. Still, he finally nods his head and simply says, "Deal."

Once we agree on details and such, I say my farewells and move to head out. But Posy waylays me before I reach the door.

"Here Peeta." She holds out the drawing of me and Gale.

"It's… for me?" _Of all the drawings she gives to me, it's that one?_

"I'm not showing it tomorrow. So I give it to you."

 _Dammit_. I can't very well refuse such a gift without coming across like a total ass. "Well, thank you for this wonderful present. I'll be sure to take good care of it." _And keep it well out of sight._

When I finally get back to the library — after showering and changing into something more comfortable than those horrible grey uniforms — I take the neatly-folded drawing out of my pocket.

While I have a strong urge to put this picture somewhere hidden and unreachable, there is the fact that Posy seemed to have made this with a lot of sincere love. It just feels wrong to purposely put it someplace to be forgotten.

Not to mention that, despite the embarrassing circumstances, there is the simple fact that the image does showcase a helping hand from someone who probably wouldn't have thought twice about leaving me behind less than a year ago. I never did ask him why he offered to carry me out, when he could have easily sided with Haymitch and Chaff.

So instead of storing the picture away, I trust in the fact that nobody else visits this place and carefully tack the thing to the end of a bookshelf before calling it a night.


	13. Capitol's Counter

"No no no! Are you purposely trying to get everybody to hate you?"

From his expression and the small growl coming from him, it's pretty obvious that I pushed Gale a bit too far with my statement. So I manage to use that split-second to prepare right before he launches himself at me.

I don't think my current pupil will need to worry about paying me back for helping him out; our mutual frustration probably eliminates what debt there is. There are times where it gets to the point where he actually looks like he's ready to use me as a squishy arrow-storage unit; however, I'm usually too busy imagining his neck as an equally-squishy gripper to test my hand strength.

Gale's an earnest learner; really, he is. However, his curmudgeonly disposition is practically ingrained within his very being, making it absurdly difficult to dislodge or at least mask in a believable manner. And whenever I show the slightest amount of frustration, he takes offense which sours his disposition further, which then frustrates me further, and so on… _This must have been how Haymitch and Katniss felt during the pre-interview training._

In any case, we tend to get the frustration out of our system by resorting to impromptu wrestling matches. Like right now.

Interestingly enough, after all the times we've gone at it, I've only had a marginal number of wins against him. Despite being taller, Gale isn't as comprehensively muscled as me, nor does he have the years of practice as both a wrestler and tribute. However, what he lacks in strength and technique, he makes up for in a willingness to fight dirty. Really dirty.

At the very least, we did set down some ground rules; namely no attacking of the face. If Command saw bruises on us, we'd be pretty screwed.

This time, while Gale does score another nut shot against me, I manage to wrap an arm around his neck. With him, a chokehold pretty much ensures victory for me every single time; in contrast, his are relatively — "relatively" being a key word — easy to break out of. Sure enough, he slaps the ground in a gesture of submission.

After we break apart and I lay on the ground, nursing Peeta Jr. and his buddies back to health in the process, I manage to gasp out to Gale, "Better. But you're still leaving yourself too open. Timing and utilization of defensive posture is key; if you do nothing but attempt offensive moves, you'll drain yourself out."

He just nods as he lies on his back and recovers. Once he gets his breath back, he says, "It'd be much easier if you weren't so damn heavy."

I roll my eyes at that. "You know you won't have the luxury picking a weight class on the battlefield. And if you do things right, you can actually use someone's own weight and movements against them."

Besides serving as a good stress valve, the matches also help both keep me on my toes and Gale learn some technique in case things come down to close combat. Because, at this point, while Gale's a great shot with his bow and good and making snares, he'd be pretty be pretty screwed if someone manages to close the distance; apparently Thirteen's combat training has surprisingly little emphasis on hand-to-hand. So hopefully, if the situation arises, he'll be prepared.

Gale recovers first and gets up to offer me a hand. Though before I can take it, another one of those damn hummingbirds decides to come over and take a few more strands of my hair, which admittedly earns some flailing as I try to fend them off. Seriously, why don't they mess with anybody else?

As Gale's too busy laughing at my reaction to help me, I just give him a scowl and get myself up. Ever since Gale's promotion — he even got a communicuff, which he has an almost fetish-like affection for — he's been sent to work with Beetee to help develop various weapons. So most of our "PR sessions" take place in the hummingbird room.

"So anything else for today, Mellark?" Gale asks. Just like that, there is no sign of the frustration we had been exhibiting with each other just a couple of minutes ago.

"Nah… I think we are done for now. Although, at the very least, humor me about what you learned this past session."

To his credit Gale shows that he actually retains all the lessons I teach him; it's applying those lessons that's the tricky part. He'll probably practice later in front of the film crew like usual to get an unbiased critique.

Hopefully by the next time we get out into the field, he'll be prepared and actually somewhat likeable.

~oOo~

The next several weeks generally go in a blur.

If there's one good thing that could be said about the photo taken of me and Gale, it's that the folks in Thirteen find me way more approachable as just another boy instead of some weird celebrity outsider. Who knew?

To my surprise, Beetee's not displeased with me blowing my cane up on the first day out. In fact, he's ecstatic to see the thing work and watches Pollux's footage to take notes on the results. Turns out that he's constantly tweaking designs, and the more chances he has to see his stuff in action, the better. Same goes for my coat; he's constantly trying to tweak the synthetic flames to see if he can improve the display and make them more efficient.

Annie's actually settling in quite nicely, though I keep some tabs on her to make sure she's still doing alright. The only issue she seems to be having is that she misses the sun. Many times, she sits with us during the propo lessons in the hummingbird house; Gale and I keep her company, and she simply likes the little beasts. In a morbid way, her being near Finnick as he was tortured meant that she got a lot of information about various Capitol individuals that could possibly be used in the future, so she is currently cooperating with Command in giving that information. What she refuses to divulge are the various torture techniques utilized in her presence; while Command is not happy about her reluctance, her "mental fragility" thankfully prevents them from pressuring the issue.

One disturbing piece of news probably related to Finnick's torture is the fact that apparently many pro-Rebellion individuals in the Capitol have been turning up dead due to various "accidents" or "mysterious causes". Plutarch has been ordering any of the survivors to go underground or leave if they can. The only silver lining of this is that it is causing Command to rethink their "we're not rescuing the captured victors" due to the increased hazard of someone with as much information as Finnick being kept in the wrong hands.

While I've not had any combat training, I've taken to doing research on the strategic element of warfare on top of the usual research about the districts. One book that I found interesting is a pre-Cataclysm piece by some guy named Clausewitz; at lot importance seems to be put on the motivation of participants in a conflict and how to channel that motivation. This research helps when I sit in on the military meetings in Command. I'm not required to attend and it's really not like I'm contributing to policy, even if I do offer a thought here and there. However, I feel that it helps me to know what role we are taking in this war and how we are doing so. In any case, Coin occasionally gives me some strange glances during the meeting but says nothing of it.

Over the period of time, we do several more field propos. The positive reaction gained from the footage gained in Eight pretty much not only showed Command the usefulness of doing the propos in an unstaged environment, it also solidified my usefulness in the eyes of Coin. Haymitch tells me that it was a good thing that I decided to ask permission to initiate rescue mission instead of going at it by myself; doing so would have likely made her consider me an unpredictable liability. He also tells me that had I just ignored instead of reasoning with him, he may have decided to implant an irremovable chip that would allow him to speak in my head at will; the very thought of Haymitch in my head 24/7 is something I really don't want to comprehend.

Despite the positive feedback from the Eight propo shoot, Command decides that it's better to do something more low-risk. So it is decided that we get sent to rebel-pacified strongholds such as Six, Seven, and Nine. Other than Eight, the other districts are deemed too risky to visit. Two and Twelve are completely out of the question as of this point, as are Three and Eleven due to the disproportionate Peacekeeper presence even with the latter two still in the fight. Five and Ten are fairly pacified, but require going through the off-limits districts to get to them. Four and, surprisingly, One are also swinging in the rebellion's favor, but the proximity to the Capitol and Two means that there are still frequent incursions by Capitol forces.

In general, the visits go quite well despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that they fall on the uneventful side. By the time we have our first foray out into the field since Eight, the lessons I've been giving Gale have started to sink in, and he actually looks quite personable and motivational on camera. In general, I tend to spend most of my time with the civilian populace and Gale with the soldiers; however, both of us find time to talk to the respective groups. One thing that always gets the audience, especially the kids, going is setting myself on fire; fortunately with Beetee's tweaks, I can adjust things so that the coat's not completely drained in the middle of a propo shoot and I'm left sweltering in the late summer day.

Also, due to the positive reception of the treats I brought to Eight, Coin actually authorizes resources to be set aside so that I could arrange for a longer quantity of baked goods to be produced. What has helped in the increased production has been Thirteen's kitchen workers; they learn my recipes pretty quickly — doesn't hurt that the items baked tend to be on the simpler side — and are pretty enthusiastic about baking something different than the usual Thirteen fare. With an increased amount of goods produced, I can give treats to not only the children but also the soldiers, many of whom probably haven't been able to eat such things even in peacetime. The look on everybody's faces, when given the treats, make the increased workload and decreased amount of sleep completely worth it.

One thing that concerns me though is that we haven't heard any Capitol broadcasts lately. In fact, Katniss in Twelve was the latest broadcast. One would think that, with all the propos we've been making, Snow would be using Katniss as much as possible to counter us. But they have been noticeably silent. Some in Command dismiss it as them not being able to find something to say without looking like fools. However, others, including me, have this nagging feeling that they are simply gearing up and waiting for an opening so they can release something. Something big.

~oOo~

The nagging feeling is justified when a special broadcast shows up just a couple days after our last field assignment.

After the Capitol seal fades away, Caesar appears as he usually does for a propo. However, to my great surprise, he is not projecting the usual vibe of cheerful showmanship. In fact, if anything, he looks fairly dismal.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have some tragic news from District One. Reports have come in that… Well…" The fact that Caesar Flickerman, of all people, is stumbling to say something actually disturbs me quite a bit. Finally, he just takes a deep breath and says, "I-I believe it is easier for me to just show you all what happened instead of explaining. The footage was taken from a group of rebels that our Peacekeepers managed to eliminate. If only those rebels were taken out sooner…"

* * *

I remember us passing by the Victors' Village in One during the Victory Tour. As befitting a Career district that not only had a cozy relationship with the Capitol but also a vocation based on luxury items, all the mansions there were clearly several magnitudes more opulent than what we had in Twelve.

Except this time, the only thing that's on my mind is how all the homes are ablaze. Armed individuals walk around the wide boulevard, which is littered with a multitude of bodies — some of them distressingly small. A figure can be seen attempting to flee, only to be gunned down.

Besides the gunmen, there seems to be only one person left alive in the area. The middle-aged woman is kneeling next to the bodies of a man and several young kids. As the crew gets closer, it's clear that she's sobbing and cradling a small infant close to her; even from this angle, a bloody ragged hole can be seen on the baby's chest.

"Really, Indigo," one of the gunmen casually says as he walks up next to her, "are you so surprised that this is the result of you victors rebuffing our offers to join the Rebellion? Did you really think that your status would ensure some kind of protection? Well, not so high-and-mighty anymore, are you."

When there is no response, the gunman adds, "If you're still interested, I'm sure we'll be willing to overlook that slight. What do you say?"

As Indigo looks up at everyone, grief and rage can be seen on her tearstained face. "To hell with you…" she chokes out. "AND TO HELL WITH YOUR RE—"

A bullet splitting her head in two silences the victor as she slumps forward to join the rest of the bodies.

All her murderer does is shrug. "Pity…"

* * *

Caesar turns away from the screen, obviously disgusted, and I can see considerable anger shining through his showman veneer. I wouldn't be surprised if he had personally interviewed every one of those victors. It seems strange to empathize with someone who was so complicit in the Games, but Caesar honestly seemed like he wanted to help all of us, as both tributes and victors, through our interviews.

"Peeta," he says, surprising me with such a direct address, "despite us being on opposite sides, I feel that I know you well enough to know that you will not stand for this kind of atrocity. If you have as much influence as I think you do, please try your best to prevent something like this from happening again."

As he moves onto other things occurring around Panem, I turn to fix a glare at Coin.

"Explain." The words are breathed in a shaky manner through clenched teeth. From the corner of my eyes, I can see that Haymitch is just as pissed, though he remains silent.

Coin is unruffled and doesn't even bother denying what we just saw on screen. "The victors in District One refused to join the Rebellion's cause. Having them still operational could risk them functioning as propagandists and even soldiers for the Capitol. Frankly, I don't understand what you are so upset about; last I remember, the individuals from that district have always been adversaries to you."

Yes, they were. But in the end, it's clear that the Careers were just as much victims of the Capitol as the rest of us; the last Quell made that point considerably clearer. People who have not gone through the Games are unlikely to comprehend, but once one becomes a victor, a bond forms with the rest of them. Even as we were trying to kill each other — not to mention the constant bickering and insults lobbed at one another — we still felt traces of the camaraderie… well, except for Brutus; he was just an asshole. Maybe it just means that we are completely batshit insane, but the point remains: an attack on a victor is an attack on all.

"Besides," she continues, "it's not like we are the only ones doing such a thing. For example, most of District Four's victors were killed off by Peacekeepers due to them objecting to Cresta's arrest by the Capitol."

"Doesn't make it less wrong! And if victors were hesitant to join us then, what makes you think they'll jump on the rebel wagon now?"

From Coin's expression, it's clear that she doesn't even care, and she dares me to challenge her further. As angry as I am, I don't take the bait but, instead, focus back on the broadcast.

"… And now, President Snow would like to make a special announcement."

The camera shifts from Caesar to Snow, who's situated quite smugly at his podium.

"Thank you, Mr. Flickerman for that introduction. And tragic news indeed." _I'm sure you're losing tons of sleep over the victors' deaths…_ "I believe it was Mr. Hawthorne who announce the desire for the rebels to drag everybody down with them. That begs the question: where would that leave us?

"Chaos. That's where. These rebels, in their quest to throw this nation into anarchy, are practically salting the earth wherever they go. The population of this nation is precarious enough as it is; this war that the rebels are so insistent on pushing threatens to destroy us to the point of no return.

"Let's say that they do manage to be successful enough to take the country. What kind of nation will this District Thirteen-led — oh, you didn't expect it to be something led by all the districts, did you? In any case, what kind of nation will we have? If the footage is any indication, it will not be anything as egalitarian as what the wide-eye idealists like to imagine.

"But enough of that. I'm sure you all would like to see a friendlier face. So without further ado, let's welcome Katniss Everdeen."

My heart flies to my throat as Katniss walks up to the stage. It seems almost forever since I last saw her, and I have been trying not to think too much about her lest I get distracted from my duties; the irony of that with my ultimate goal is not lost on me. Fortunately, it seems that Annie was right in that Katniss has not been mistreated while in captivity. In fact, despite the unhappy look on her face, she looks even healthier than I have ever seen her before. That, plus the black silk dress she has on, makes her look stunning. I can tell that Gale thinks the same, judging from that sharp intake of breath he just took.

She walks up to Caesar, and they hug warmly, before she moves to settle in on the provided chair near Snow's podium.

"Katniss, it is a pleasure of you to join us today," Snow says. _Like she has a choice in the matter. And since when was Snow on a first-name-basis with her?_

"Thank you Mr. President for allowing me to be here," she responds politely.

"No doubt you have heard of the unfortunate news in District One."

"Yes, and it saddens and angers me greatly." There is significant sincerity in Katniss' voice. "That may be surprising to some, considering who I… eliminated in the Arena. However, victors are victors, and I can't help but feel some sort of kinship to them."

I get fairly nervous when Katniss talks about feeling empathy for other victors, considering the trouble it got us in during the Quell interviews. However, Snow lets her continue as usual. I guess we're well past the point where voicing such thoughts matters anymore.

"Is there anything you would like to comment about the war?" Snow asks.

She scowls a bit before simply saying, "No more than what you already said. Thirteen has so far done nothing to make me change my opinion about them being a bunch of opportunists."

"Okay then. In which case, I have nothing more to add other than the hope that order will finally prevail over chaos. But before we go, do you have any parting words, Katniss?"

As the camera focuses closer on Katniss, I finally notice that this is not just her being in a usual unhappy funk. Something seems to have her on edge.

"Yes, I do." She takes a deep breath before suddenly blurting out, "Peeta, the Capitol's going to bomb Thir—"

"Cut the broadcast!" Snow barks. Almost immediately, the Capitol seal pops back up.

And an increasing feeling of dread, which has nothing to do with any possible bombing, settles in my stomach.

* * *

***The Capitol: Now***

_That went better than expected._

As he gets up to leave, Flickerman shoots me a dirty look — he undoubtedly knows about the other victor eliminations throughout Panem — but wisely keeps his mouth shut. If that sentimental fool weren't so good at his job, I would have replaced him years ago.

I finally turn to smile at my special guest, whose face holds a look of dread along with just the slightest trace of triumph.

"Come now Katniss, don't look so dour. You performed marvelously."

Both dread and triumph get replaced by confusion. "I… did?"

"Yes indeed. Though I would like to know: which guard did you overhear talking about the bombing?"

The speed of Katniss' answer betrays her eagerness, and I'm pretty sure I know where it's coming from. It doesn't matter as it's clear that she's telling the truth. So everybody important wins; Katniss gets rid of someone she hates and manages to warn her beloved in the process; I manage to root out an incompetent employee; to top things off, the right information has just been sent out, which should bait Thirteen in the proper manner.

Everything is moving along quite nicely.

"Let's get you ready for the next step, shall we?"


	14. The Rescue

Command goes wild for just a couple seconds before Coin calls for order. Everything becomes a blur after that; one moment I'm staring at the blank screen in Command, the next, I'm being quickly ushered down to the lower levels with the rest of Thirteen's populace. It isn't long after I get settled in with the Hawthornes, minus Gale who goes with the rest of the military personnel, and Annie when the first bombs hit. Despite how far down we are, each hit is a rumble of thunder overhead that shakes the very foundations of the complex and causes people to huddle closer together.

After the first wave appears to have passed, Coin issues an announcement recognizing Katniss for her efforts to warn us. _So it took you guys this long to see that she was not a traitor, huh?_ There is not even an apology for their previous behavior against her or the simple fact that she was not rescued.

It takes every fiber of my being not to be crippled by the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me. All this time, I have kept Katniss at the back of my head through keeping myself busy and helping the war effort. Now, this announcement brings every single repressed thought up to the forefront, and there is nothing I can do to distract myself away from it. The library's currently off-limits, and I left my sketchbook back there. Also, even if the kitchen was accessible, I'm only allowed to work right before a propo. So the best I can do is to help Hazelle with the kids, or go around the corridors to give comforting words to the huddled masses. All the while, thoughts gnaw away at me.

_Snow wouldn't dare hurt Katniss. Would he? She's still a powerful symbol. Can't risk creating a martyr. So she's safe… But he doesn't have to kill her. No he doesn't. Like Annie says, there are plenty of techniques out there that don't leave marks. No, stop it; can't afford to think things like that. But what if he's doing something to her right no— Stop it. But there— STOP IT! She's fine! No, she isn't! We don't know that! We need to get here out of there. We need to get her out of there! But it's not like we can do anything right now. So just keep busy and trust that she'll be alright. She'll be alright… Katniss, please be alright…_

The mixture of the broadcast, plus the current threat of the bombs, also appears to have taken a toll on Annie as well. I don't blame her; I myself wonder whether Snow will take things out on Finnick and Johanna. However, the way Annie passes the time is probably very far from healthy.

All she does is sit in the corner and mutter various step-by-step procedures: "… Make sure that subject is secured at twenty-degree incline with feet elevated. Place cloth over subject's face. Gradually, but consistently, use spigot to pour water over cloth from a height between one-to-two feet. Allow for twenty-to-forty seconds before turning off water and removing cloth. Subject is allowed to three-to-four breaths. Repeat process…" If she's not sounding like a do-it-yourself torture manual, she's listing off various body parts and their pain thresholds.

I try my best to console her, but she's completely withdrawn. It doesn't help that I have to help keep the kids away whenever she goes into one of her rants.

"Peeta," Hazelle says as she worriedly approaches me, "why don't you take a break? You need to get some rest."

"It's alright." I actually am starting to feel some traces of fatigue, but I can't afford to fall asleep. Not when I know what's waiting for me in dreamland.

"No it's not. Look at yourself; this isn't healthy."

"I'm fine!" I snap, instantly regretting it. _Maybe I do need some shuteye…_ "I'm sorry for that, Ms. Hawthrone. But I can't risk sleep. How about this: if I take a small nap, will you wake me up?"

She purses her lips, shakes her head, and sighs. "You're as bad as my son. Alright, if you think that's all you need, I won't challenge you. It's better than nothing."

Despite her reservations, Hazelle's good on her word and wakes me up after thirty minutes; I take several of those naps throughout the time that we wait for the bombs to stop. Being that she's the mother of the guy who was pretty much my rival in Twelve, I find it almost hilariously ironic that Hazelle is being more of a mother to me than my birth mother ever was. When I bring up the subject to her, she just laughs it off.

"Gale may be my son, and I do have my bias towards him. However, you're a good boy; there's no reason to see you suffer just because you and Gale like the same girl."

That makes me mutter, "If I was better, we wouldn't be in this me—"

"Stop that! You had no control of the situation we're in, so there's no way I'm going to judge you on such ridiculous notions. I'm going to judge you, among other things, on how you're helping out with the little ones, how you managed to help make Gale a bit more presentable on camera, and how you seem to be more focused about the welfare of others than any military objective.

"Also, on the subject of Kantiss: it's not like either of you have a stake in her. If she decides to choose one of you or the other — hell, if she decides to stay single — it's her prerogative. Besides," she says in a rather conspiratorial manner, "even if Katniss does pick you, I'm sure that Gale will find a girl that fits him quite well.

"In any case, the only thing that matters is getting her home safely."

Hazelle's last comment couldn't have come sooner enough. As soon as the bombs cease, I'm informed me that Command has come to a decision:

The victors are going to be rescued.

~oOo~

The rescue team leaves almost immediately once it's clear that no bombs are on the way. Among other soldiers, Boggs, Chaff, and Gale are part of the squad sent to infiltrate the Capitol. From information provided by insiders and corroborated with Annie's intel, the actual jailbreak will occur at night as that's when both Katniss should be in her cell with Johanna and Finnick. So it means that they should be back by the next morning.

I should be jealous that Gale's going to be the one to break Katniss out. However, I know that I'm little to no use in such an environment, whereas Gale's performance is practically off the charts. Right now, all I care about is everybody geting back safely. _Please stay safe…_

So now comes the wait. I hate the wait.

Plutarch originally wants me to do a propo to show that I'm still alive and kicking. However, once he sees my face, he practically turns and runs in the opposite direction. They decide to just use some footage of me helping out around during the bombing itself. Apparently, the propos are not just to show that Thirteen's not down for the count, but that they also serve as a distraction for the team.

In the meantime, I wait with Annie in the hummingbird room. I'm too anxious to even distract myself through reading, but at the very least, I got my sketchbook back. This time, instead of dreams, I illustrate all my feared scenarios: Boggs with his legs blown off; the hovercraft blown out of the sky; Chaff riddled with bullets; Snow personally executing a kneeling Gale in front of a jeering crowd of Capitolites; the team finding the mangled remains of the victors in their cells… Occasionally, I illustrate some of Annie's rants with various individuals — some hypothetical, others actually happening — serving as the subject matter: Johanna being electrocuted; water continuously poured over Haymitch's face; me having the skin between my fingers cut.

Either way, I just keep drawing. I don't eat; I don't think; I just draw.

Finally we are told that the team is coming back and that we are supposed to wait in at the hospital. Other than that there were no casualties on our side, we're given no information as to the mission's result. The two of us walk there together, and as we wait, we hold each other's hand in mutual anxiety.

Suddenly main doors of the hospital burst open and a gurney surrounded by nurses and physicians rushes inside. I can't see who the patient is, but Annie seems to be able to. The next thing I know she calls out Finnick's name, with equal parts worry and joy, and proceeds to join the mass of people; fortunately, the physicians don't object.

A loud sarcastic voice blurts out, "Oh right, everybody pays attention to the pretty one. Ignore me…" I turn to see Johanna being wheeled in. She's definitely seen better days; she's emaciated and sallow from the lack of food and light, and covered in bruises from a surplus of abuse. Not to mention how her head's been completely shaved, with scabbed and oozing lacerations covering her scalp, and she seems to be missing a right hand. However, there is no denying that she still has quite a bit of spunk left.

Chaff, who's walking along her gurney, puts a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "Hey, I've been with you the entire time. Does that mean I don't count as everybody?"

"Yes."

I decide to distract myself from my anxiety by joining her for a bit, "Hey, Johanna. How you holding up?"

"Oh hey look! It's Bread Boy!" Johanna chirps before getting a good look at me and grimacing. "Wow, you look like shit, and that's saying something."

"Thanks," I respond dryly. _Yep, definitely hasn't lost her spunk._ "Hey, so how's Katniss doing?"

At the mention of Katniss' name, both Johanna's and Chaff's expression soften and any lingering amusement on their faces fades away, causing the anxiety I held back to return twofold.

Before I can inquire any further, Gale barges in with a stony expression and, like the rest of the soldiers, a physical condition that's a little worse for wear. Upon seeing me, however, his expression falters, and he looks like he's ready to flee in the opposite direction as fast as possible.

"Gale?" To his credit, he stands his ground and attempts to compose himself. "What's going on? Where's Katniss?"

He just mutters, "She's not here…"

 _No, that can't be right._ "What you mean? Is she's still on the hove—"

"I MEAN SHE'S NOT HERE!" he bellows as he clutches both my shoulders, leaning his entire weight against me. After he takes a few breaths, he continues: "The Capitol… They-they must have known we were coming. Apparently they moved her out at the very last moment. Where? I don't know. All I know is that I failed her again…"

As Gale bows his head and keeps his hands clasped on my shoulders, my mind attempts to figure out everything.

_So she's still with Snow? Why is she still there? What does he want with her? He can't hurt her. Please don't hurt her…_

Haymitch, who's looking no less distressed, comes and snaps his fingers in our faces, "Guys, flip out later. Coin wants us in Command right now.

"Apparently, the Capitol is about to make a special announcement."

~oOo~

More waiting until the Capitol seal pops up.

Instead of the usual broadcasts from Caesar's stage, this broadcast is from the balcony of President's Mansion. Snow and Katniss are addressing cheering Capitol citizens crowded in the City Circle. To my relief, Katniss looks to be unharmed; she's actually somewhat smiling and waving at the crowds. Not to mention that she's absolutely radiant in the flowing white gown that she's wearing.

Snow calmly gestures for the crowds to simmer down. "The last broadcast we had a couple days ago may have had a few people worried. I assure you, Katniss' outburst was not taken personally. Why, I would have great trepidation if she did not show any concern for those she cares about." He pauses to bring Katniss' hand to his lips for a kiss; a growl emanates from Gale when he sees that.

Snow continues: "It is in light of this that I have decided to show the Capitol's generosity. Whenever District Thirteen is ready to put forward its terms, I am willing to begin a one-week ceasefire. This is so wounds can heal, the dead can be buried, and everybody can take a breather. Who knows, maybe it will stick, and we can once again have peace."

There is furious muttering amongst those is Command. Much of is debating the pros and cons of the ceasefire, or how much Snow can be kept to his word.

However, Snow isn't finished. "The rebels no doubt are suspicious of my intentions. What reason do I have, besides magnanimity, to offer such a thing? Well, I simply wish to take a little break for reasons of celebration. Because I have an important announcement to make:

"After much time together, Katniss and I have recently joined in the sacred union of marriage."

The reaction is almost immediate: both the Capitol audience and Command is stunned into silence. Snow looks smug and Katniss remains impassive as they preside over said silence. However, while the Capitol crowd's silence is soon replaced by cheering, Command's silence is broken by Gale issuing an inarticulate and primal scream full of rage and despair.

I don't know what to think.

_K-Katniss? Why…_

"In any case," Snow says straight into the camera as his smile widens, "what kind of father would I be if I didn't marry the mother of my child?"

Whatever Snow says next is drowned out by the resultant uproar. Haymitch is screaming obscenities at the screen. Gale… actually looks like he's crying. I just look around, puzzled at the reactions and still trying to figure out what's going on.

 _Mother of his child? But I thought he was talking about Katniss. Wait, is Katniss — no, it can't be. He's lying. Just another Capitol lie. That what the Capitol does: it lies. Just another fabrication... Isn't it? Because it can't be true. No, it's not true. IT'S NOT TRUE DAMMIT! It's not… It's not… It's… true. No… Nononononono… Oh… Oh Katniss… What have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE? I brought this upon her._ _Mother's right: It's all my fault. My fault. I'm just a screw-up. I_ __—_ No, wait; there's still time to fix things. Yes, still time. I can make things right. After all, no place to go but up, hahaha! I just need to put in more effort. Then victory's just around the corner. Yes, just around the corner. Time to get to work. Time to get to work. It's time_ _…_

I proceed to get up and grab Gale to come with me. However, he just won't budge and, instead, looks at me like I'm insane or something. Actually, all of Command is now staring as if I had lost all my marbles.

_Well, don't just stand there. There's pro— Huh… Why is the room spinning?_

Next thing I know, I'm on the ground, which actually doesn't feel too bad. Gale and Haymitch are at my side with frantic expressions on their faces for some reason; both are shouting, but their voices are too muffled for me to comprehend what's being said. Maybe they're simply trying to tell me to get a move on.

_Really? First you seem hesitant, and now you're telling me to get move on? Make up your damn minds!_

While the ground is becoming more comfortable at each passing second, Gale actually starts shaking me and screaming in my face.

_Alright, alright! I'll be up in a second. Just give me a couple minutes so I can take a short nap. Yeah… that sounds good. Just a little nap._

_Just… a… little… na—_

* * *

Cato's relaxing on a stump and popping back some nightlock. When he sees me, he cheerfully waves me over as if I were a long-lost friend.

"Hey Peeta! It's been awhile." He pauses to glance over me up and down. "Wow… You really look like shit. Why don't you take a breather?"

After he plops me down onto a stump next to his, Cato rummages around his pocket and brings out another handful of those berries. "Here, have some. I promise they'll make everything feel better."

I don't even hesitate before grabbing some and throwing them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm a prick.


	15. Happy Place

"Well aren't you a pitiful sight…"

Normally, a mockingjay perching on my counter and talking to me should be cause for concern.

However, at this point I barely even look up, from the dough I'm kneading, to grumble, "Go away. Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Oooh, taking the tough guy approach. I'm _sure_ that fits you perfectly." The creature is definitely living up to the first part of its name. It doesn't help that it is speaking in _her_ voice.

Finally I look up and sigh, "What do you want?"

"I want you to get off your ass and do something besides filling this house with baked goods."

I allow myself take in my surroundings to see the stacks upon stacks of bread, cookies, pastries, pies, cakes, and other food items that have formed a practical maze throughout the living area. The advantage of being here is that food doesn't spoil. However, since I make a lot more than I eat — hell, I don't even need to eat — things tend to accumulate after a while.

"I guess you're right," I say, putting my apron up and moving towards the door. "I do need to go into town to buy some paints."

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" the bird calls after me.

"Don't care!"

I don't bother closing the door behind me as I walk out of the ivy-strewn house, through the weed-choked Victor's Village, and towards the ever-burning pyre that is District Twelve.

The first time I saw the place, I was naturally horrified. Now, I'm whistling to myself as I casually step around the charred or bloated corpses of merchants, Seam residents, and Peacekeepers scattered throughout the district; it's amazing the things one gets used to after a couple weeks. Still, I don't head into town unless I need something. I also look determinately forward as I pass the husk that used to be the bakery.

Despite the fact that the craft store is lacking a roof and on fire, the various goods on the shelves are remarkably unscathed. I grab a couple red and yellow pigments, plus a bottle of linseed oil, before tossing several coins into the till as I head out; the proprietor may currently be burnt to a crisp and slumped over the counter, but it would be rude of me to leave without paying.

I'm about to trudge back to the Victor's Village when a voice calls out, "Peeta."

It's a gentle yet firm voice that I've not heard since that fateful hovercraft ride. A voice that I've not even heard in any of my dreams. It freezes me in my tracks and causes my heart to constrict as a lump forms in my throat. _No, it can't be… Can it?_ Slowly but surely, I turn towards the bakery, where I see him standing next to the melted lump which used to be the oven.

"D-Dad?"

I don't know what happens in the time between, but one moment I'm gaping stupidly in the middle of the square, and the next, I'm hugging him and sobbing into his shoulder. I may be blubbering like a baby towards what's probably just a complete fabrication of my mind, but, right now, I don't give a damn. What matters is that he's here.

"I missed you," I gasp between sobs.

"I know, son… I know."

"I-I'm sorry that—"

"Shhh… It's not your fault. There's no reason to blame yourself."

"But—"

Dad breaks the embrace to look me sternly in the eye. "No 'buts'."

When I hesitantly nod, he simply says, "Why don't we take a walk to somewhere a bit less depressing? In the meantime, fill me in on what's going on with your life."

"Dad, you're in my mind. Shouldn't you know everything already?"

He simply throws his head back and gives a laugh. A good hearty laugh just like he used to. Oh, how I missed that laugh. "Perhaps. But I'd rather hear it in your own words."

So we walk, with Dad guiding me to wherever we are going, and talk. Or more accurately, _I_ talk and he remains silent. But I guess that's how we always were; I was always the one to have something to say while he was the one to listen. And with each passing minute, I feel weight after weight being dropped off.

It's not until we stop walking, and I have pretty much talked myself dry, when I realize that we are somewhere that I haven't been to during my little internal exile: the Meadow. It's actually completely untouched by the devastation behind us; goldenrod and tall meadow rue sway gently in the cool breeze as the sun provides a steady source of warmth. Not a single flake of ash settles here, and even the few clouds in the clear blue sky are free from the taint that rises from the ruins.

_Why have I never been here before?_

_Because you've been too busy slumming it in your house._

_Oh…_

For a while, Dad and I are simply content to take in the scenery and let the moments pass. Of course, such a thing isn't bound to last, as he grabs a hold of my shoulders so that he can face me.

"Listen to me, Peeta. There's a whole lot of good you can be doing out there, not to mention people still around who care about you. You can't afford to fade away like this."

"Easier said than done," I grumble.

"I never said it would be easy. But would you rather let everybody down and allow all of Panem to end up like that," he asks, gesturing to the ruins, "or would you rather give it all you got?"

Great, he has me backed into a corner with no escape expect for the one he's provided, and, from the smile he's giving me, he knows it. _Dammit_. "Alright, you win this one."

Dad just laughs and pats me on the back. "Never figured you to be a quitter anyways." Then he nods past my shoulder.

Turns out Cato decided to join us.

"I've come to see you off," he answers my unasked query with the usual cheer.

"What happened to the whole 'one big happy family' thing?"

"Yeah… I think it's best to stick to the regular dreams. It turns out that after a while, you're a pretty depressing guy. Not to mention boring. Yep, temporary visits are definitely better."

"Thanks, I guess."

"No problem," he chirps as he pulls his sword from the scabbard on his back.

"Um, what's the sword for?"

"It's either this or you jumping into a fire or something like that. Do you have a better idea to wake up?"

I look at the hellish ruins behind us and then take in the serene expanse of the meadow.

"Nevermind…" I turn back to Dad to give him one final embrace. "Will I ever see you again?"

"I can't guarantee anything, son. Just promise me that you'll do your best."

"Alright, I promise… I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Peeta."

Once we have said our goodbyes, I turn to face Cato, who just cocks an eyebrow at me.

"You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

He lines his sword up with my neck and grins. "I'll admit: I've wanted to do this for quite some time. See you around…"

I just roll my eyes as he moves to swing back. "Yeah yeah, till next time. Let's just get this over with."

"Oh, and Peeta?" This time Cato's voice holds no cheer, and the sudden seriousness of his expression catches me a bit off guard. "Keep them safe."

"Wha—"

I don't get to ask Cato to clarify as his sword slices through me and the world collapses in on itself. I make sure that Dad's the last thing I see.

* * *

Waking up from a long nap is a nice refreshing experience. Waking up after an absurdly long period of unconsciousness is a bitch. It was like that when I woke up after having my leg removed; it's like that now. To complete the picture, I appear to be in the hospital.

I also notice that there are tracks of wetness on my face from my eyes. Now _that's_ fairly embarrassing.

Ultimately, while I do manage to get my face completely dry, my painfully stiff motions eventually catch the attention of the guy sitting next to me.

Of course it's Gale.

He's actually starting to look a bit like me, with dark crescents underneath his eyes and an overall haggard bearing. I wonder what's eating him.

For a couple moments all the hunter does is blink in my direction as if I'm merely an apparition. Then realization sets in, and he looks as if he's on the verge of some kind of worry-slash-happiness-induced breakdown.

It's making me a bit uncomfortable, so the first thing I do is smirk and croak, "We really need to stop meeting like this. People will start getting ideas."

Gale's expression of concern and relief slips away to be replaced by a scowl, and he proceeds to storm off. However, right as he gets to the door, he turns around, walks back, and wallops me in the arm. Hard.

I gasp as the shock goes up and down it. "Hey, what the hell was that for?"

All the hunter does is grab a fistful of the front of my hospital gown to pull me up until we are eye-to-eye. "Don't you ever think of clocking-out like that again!" he thickly growls before letting go and completing his huffy little exit.

Within a couple minutes, Haymitch hurries in. Fortunately he keeps his cool and just decides to fill me in on the details.

My mentor proceeds to explain that, in his own words, "You had the most epic freak-out I've ever had the displeasure of witnessing." One moment, I was just staring straight ahead; the next, I was babbling incoherently before collapsing into unconsciousness. From there, I was pretty much comatose for about five days.

Command's still undecided as whether to take up Snow's offer for a temporary ceasefire. While they don't trust the idea, the Rebellion's in a very bad shape at the moment, and they could use the time to regroup. Apparently Snow's last announcement, plus me being out of commission, really did in the morale of the rebels.

To me, the whole thing sounds a bit silly that they are placing all their motivation on a couple of teenagers. Shouldn't the fact that they are fighting for their own freedom be motivation enough? Ah well…

"Also Finnick wants to see you as soon as possible. It sounds important."

"Alright, I'll head there as soon as I can actually move."

Haytmich eyes me soberly. "I have to warn you though; he's in real bad shape. Annie keeps him tethered, but the kid's a bit on the fragile side right now. I trust that you know how to handle these things, but I just want to give you a heads-up."

 _Finnick's one of the most confident guys I've met; what could make him fragile, of all things?_ Suddenly, my question's answered as Annie recites her little torture manual in my head. Suppressing a shudder, I nod in assent. "I'll keep that in mind."

After we get that all that cleared out to the way, Haymitch's disposition goes back up and he cheerfully chirps, "By the way, check out what the little Hawthorne decided to bring to her last show-and-tell." With that, he tosses a piece of paper on my lap and vacates from my presence.

Hesitantly, I flip the sheet over. It's a drawing of me in bed and Gale at my bedside, and underneath in bold letters is a simple, yet dreaded, title:

Sleeping Beauty.

_Fuck._

~oOo~

Being bedridden for almost a week's worth of time means that it take me a while to actually get up and move around. I probably look like an elderly man in the way I walk. However, as soon as I'm mobile, I don't waste any time going on my way. I even refuse a wheelchair in the process so that can get the circulation running again.

On the way to Finnick's quarters, I get to have the wonderful pleasure of passing by Johanna's bed. Unfortunately, she's awake and spots me.

"Look," she crows, nudging Chaff in the process, "if it isn't Sleeping Beauty!"

_Is that what they are seriously calling me now? I'm actually yearning for the days of "Bread Boy" and "Loverboy"._

"Now now Johanna; be nice," Chaff reprimands. _At least somebody's on my si_ —"It's not his fault that he's the prettiest princess."

The only response I can give is to gape as if I were a beached fish. Of course, Johanna then decides to pile on the fun.

"Hey guys, I just noticed something pretty awesome." She excitedly gestures with her handless arm towards Chaff's arm and my leg. "We're stump buddies!"

 _I… I got nothing._ So I just give them both a tight smile and wave before proceeding as quickly as I can to Finnick's quarters.

I should probably announce myself, but instead, I simply go right on in to greet Finnick and Annie. I immediately regret doing so, and it takes everything within me not to do an about-face and run away. However, I steel myself and walk steadily forward.

Even with Annie's descriptions of Finnick's torture, and Haymitch telling me that he's in pretty bad shape, nothing prepares me for the sight before my eyes. The District Four victor, known for his athletic build and bronze skin, is emaciated and sallow from the lack of light. His hair hangs lifelessly down to his shoulders, while his sea-green eye, usually holding a mischievous glint, is dull and looks down in shame upon seeing me.

Right when I come in, a nurse is in the process of changing his bandages; so I get a clear unobstructed view of his face. Or what's left of it. While the entire right side of Finnick's face — plus the nose, lips, and scalp — has been left intact, the majority of the left side has practically been stripped away to the bone. In some spots, I swear that I can even see the white glint of his cheekbone and several molars. His ear has been completely cut off, and an empty socket gazes at me even as the right eye looks away. And while his lips themselves may be intact, there is a cut extending, in a grotesque smile, from the corner of his mouth until it disappears into the mass of mangled flesh.

The worse thing is that it's obvious why they kept the majority of his face unmarred. Even with all the disfigurement given to him, he'd still be a valuable commodity should he ever fall back into the possession of the Capitol again. Hell, there are probably some potential customers who would be actually attracted to his scars.

When the new set of bandages are finally placed, I sit myself down on the stool opposite from Annie — who's look far more upbeat and healthy than I ever seen her before — and gently say, "Hi Finnick. It's good to see you again."

He finally makes eye contact with me and gives a small sad smile before grunting and making a couple gestures to Annie, after which she gives him a pen and paper to write in.

_"Good to see you too, Peeta. Sorry if my face is a bit… distracting."_

The last part of his note helps to relieve the tension and makes me chuckle a bit. However, the laughter dies in my throat when the realization hits me:

Finnick is an Avox.

It makes sense. The Capitol is not content to simply let him go after they find no more use for him. There are so many secrets that he knows, and, short of killing him, there's no better way to silence him than getting rid of his voice. Even though he can easily write down all his thoughts, it's just not the same as him getting in front of an audience and speaking them out.

It's also one more reason to take Snow down.

I know Finnick doesn't need any of my pity, so I decide to get right to the point: "Haymitch said you wanted to see me."

He nods his head vigorously and scribbles, _"Yeah. First, I'm glad to see you getting your beauty sleep."_

Now it's now my turn to scowl. All Finnick does in response is give me a big lopsided grin full of mischievous feigned innocence, the old him shining through in the process.

The fun doesn't last when he adds, _"Thing is, Snow wanted me to pass on a message."_

My blood runs cold at that, but I just calmly ask, "What's the message?"

Finnick gives me a shake of the head and taps the back of his right ear, which I have no clue as to the meaning of. _"Not here. We need to see Beetee first."_

~oOo~

Beetee has apparently already met with Finnick as he shows no surprise when the younger victor is wheeled in with Annie walking beside him; they are practically inseparable. After he prattles on about the possibility of making a speech synthesizer, which Finnick has apparently rebuffed for the repeated time — _"I don't want to sound like some toneless machine."_ — we get right down to business.

"All Avoxes," Beetee explains, "have a chip installed at the base of their skull. It's used as an identification tag. However, it can also be used to store other information."

Beetee proceeds to scan Finnick — whatever reason Thirteen has Avox scanning devices, I don't want to know — which causes a whole bunch of stats to appear on the screen, starting with a "04-0107B". After we scroll through tons of personal information, which I just feel uncomfortable going through, we finally settle on a file that's titled "A Message for Mr. Mellark".

Upon selecting the file, the computer asks for a voice authorization, which throws me for a bit of a loop.

"So… what do I do; just say my name or something?"

Beetee just shrugs. "I suppose so; it's not asking for some personal detail or password. In any case the computer already has a microphone and voice-recognition software built in, so you don't have to worry about that."

"If you say so…" Just to be sure, I stand as close to the terminal as possible when I say, "Peeta Mellark."

Several seconds pass as the computer process my input. Finally it's declared to be "Acceptable", and the face of President Snow appears on screen.

Finnick actually flinches and cringes away at the sight.

The rose-loving sadist just smiles at us. "Mr. Mellark, I assume this is you watching. I really don't care if others see; only that you get my little message.

"Anyways, I take it that you watched, or at least heard, the wonderful news. No doubt that you are harboring some doubts as to the validity of my claims. Well, I assure you that I am not lying at all in this regard. Katniss Snow," — he seems to draw out the last word agonizingly long — "is my lawfully-wedded wife. And she is indeed pregnant with my child."

Even after adjusting to the bombshell dropped on me earlier, I still find myself fairly short of breath at the subject being brought up again. As I attempt to get myself under control, a firm hand clasps my shoulder almost painfully. I look to see that Gale has joined us, and he's glaring at me to keep things together; this is in spite of he himself looking pretty shaken up.

Snow actually seems to have taken my reaction into account as he waits a bit before continuing: "If it is any consolation, I will say that, no, I did not bed her; I am not an idiot. It was just a simple procedure we did right after the events at the end of the Quarter Quell.

"In any case, that's not what my message is about. Or at least, that's not what the main body of my message is about. You see, Mr. Mellark, you are an intriguing individual. I admit that I was so focused on Katniss that I overlooked you. Even when you actually managed to turn the Capitol audiences against the Games with your little 'baby announcement', my concern was primarily about the Mockingjay. However, with the events of the past month, I see that I have been severely mistaken. It's not always the fiery ones you have to look out for..."

_Where is he going with this?_

"Which is why I am interested in speaking with you. Face to face. Man to man."

 _He what?_ From the collective intake of breath, it seems the rest of the guys are just as taken aback by the news.

"I will even bring Katniss along so that you and all your friends will be able to meet her in-person after all this time."

I face Gale to see that he's wearing same mixture of hope and suspicion that I feel.

_What if this is a—_

"Now, again, I'm not an idiot. And from what I have seen, you're not one either. There's no way that you're going to willingly waltz into a trap. And there's no way I will leave myself undefended or allow you to take Katniss back with you. So bear in mind that I will have precautions set in place. As for your own suspicions, I would simply like you to know that I could have easily killed you any time I wished. Don't believe me? How about some visual evidence:"

It is just footage of me and Gale having another one of our wrestling matches in front of the squad. From the trees surrounding us, it's clear that this was when we were in Seven. However, I feel a chill go up my spine when I realize that we never that part of the propo. In fact, the camera guys are relaxing with the rest of the soldiers, their gear off and sitting next to them. And from the angle, this footage was taken from some distance.

_Snow has been keeping tabs on me wherever I went._

Gale understandably seems to be just as freaked out by this news.

"However," Snow simply says when the footage had finished, "I promised a mutual friend of ours that I would not directly harm you or Hawthorne. And I am a man of my word.

"Anyways, I am sure that you will have precautions of your own. Should you agree to this, I have the contact information provided. This will be to make arrangements as to the time, place, and precautionary measures put in place. Naturally, it should occur during the ceasefire, whenever you agree to it.

"I look forward to hearing from you soon." And just like that, video ends.

With the vid's end comes a debate amongst us as whether to take or ignore Snow's invitation. Soon though, curiosity wins out, and the question as to how to convince Coin becomes the main topic.

That's when I get an idea.

"Hey, Beetee... I take it that you knew quite a few people while you were a victor, especially some higher-ups. Am I correct?"

"Yeah?" he answers hesitantly, not sure where I'm going with this.

"So where's Three's Victor's Village again?"

Beetee's eyes go wide as comprehension dawns, "No… You're not seriously thinking of…"

I just nod and give him a wide smile. I admit that there's some considerable satisfaction in seeing Beetee as the mortified one for once.

~oOo~

The meeting with Coin has just about the usual levels of pleasantness. She doesn't waste any time labeling my practical coma as me not pulling my weight. So it's no surprise that when I bring up the idea for a ceasefire and Snow's invitation, she flat-out refuses at first. So then comes the convincing.

After long, protracted, and exceedingly bitter — if wasn't clear that we didn't like each other before, this probably removes any room for doubt — debate, when it seems that Coin has started to be worn down enough, I finally decide to mention my plan. To my great pleasure, it seems to catch her completely off guard. Finally, after another hour of debating, she finally relents, though I think that I'm beginning to reach the limit of how many times I'm able to debate her.

If this succeeds, it could mean a major boost for the Rebellion. If it doesn't… well, we have nothing left to lose.

* * *


	16. Promises

Apparently, even with this war going on, Thirteen hasn't severed its communication link to the Capitol. And that's exactly what's used to set the terms.

The agreement's simple: 168-hour cessation of hostilities. During that time, both sides are allowed to fall back, regroup, and take care of wounded with the assurance of no harassment. Limited mobility, especially to retrieve the dead, is also allowed with the tacit implication that nobody wanders into any strongholds; both the Capitol and Thirteen are strictly no-entry. Any hostile action by a member of the other side will be regarded as a renegade action and the perpetrators alienated from the faction they claim to represent, allowing the aggrieved to enact retribution. Nothing's said about covert missions or espionage as it is a given that both will continue without interruption.

The meeting with Snow has additional stipulations added. It will be held at a neutral, uninhabited location that's revealed the day we head out. We're allowed to arm ourselves, but the moment there's a move to either harm Snow or retrieve Katniss, not only will the cease-fire be off, but there will be a dead-man's order to begin bombardment of Thirteen as well as all major population centers in rebel-controlled territory; unlike earlier, it will be nuclear. The same stipulation is made if any harm comes to me as well as my party. Frankly, I'm ready to agree with that as it means that Coin won't sacrifice me, Katniss, or my friends just to have a chance to get at Snow; at this point, I seriously wouldn't put such a thing past her.

Less agreeable is the point that Katniss is Snow's wife and we are to treat her as such. The Capitol seems intent on rubbing our faces in that fact as much as possible.

Once it's clear that everybody's gotten the memo, the ceasefire is officially put into action and guns throughout the ravaged country fall silent. Once that last minute's over, the fight will probably start right back up again. Of course, the pertinent question remains: who will get the first shot in?

Beetee informs me that his contacts have been reached and everything should be all set whenever I'm ready. As of now, nobody besides me, him, and Coin know the full extent of my plan.

Several days into the ceasefire, it's finally time to head out. The location that picked comes as a bit of a surprise. I was expecting something closer to Capitol-friendly territory like the Hadean Wastes or something. However, the spot picked is an old abandoned city, just to the north of District Six, called Centerpoint. Apparently it was the capital of the United American Federation, the nation that came right before Panem.

Going with me are Gale, Haymitch, Boggs, Boggs' squad, Cressida, Pollux, and Beetee; the last guy's presence surprises the hell out of everybody else, but they fortunately don't press for answers. Chaff's staying behind to keep Annie, Finnick, and Johanna company; Coin wants Messalla and Castor to stay with Plutarch in Thirteen in case there's something to be shot; and I don't want to risk bringing the rest of the Hawthornes.

"This sucks…" Gale grumbles as our hovercraft begins to head out.

"Now what?" I can't help but feel a twinge of irritation at his moodier-than-usual disposition.

"So we get to meet Katniss, but we can't afford to get too close. All due to the simple fact that we have to play along with this marriage charade…"

"Hey, it's not like you're dealing with anything new," I cheerfully quip.

That earns a caustic glare from him. "You're not helping, Mellark."

Haymitch decides to enter into this conversation in all his diplomatic grace. "Would you rather not see her at all? Because we can easily turn around and drop you off back in Thirteen."

Some time passes before Gale finally sighs. "No…"

"Then you should count your blessings and quit your bellyaching."

I opt for a friendlier approach. "Hey, you'll get to meet and talk to her in person after all this time. That has to count for something."

"I guess…"

"And in the end, we _will_ win this, and we _will_ get her out of Snow's clutches."

As Gale's disposition seems to increase a bit after that, I keep myself from adding, _"And hopefully, we won't go back to the same unpleasantness between us that we had back in Twelve…"_

~oOo~

Despite supposedly being abandoned for around a century, it's clear that Centerpoint used to be a beautiful city. It was obviously made with a lot of pride in mind to show off the power and prosperity of its nation, yet doesn't give off the same garish vibe as the Capitol. And even while the skyscrapers in the surrounding area appear to be in various states of disrepair and degradation, the main part — which is on some island — looks to be remarkably intact. Low-rise stone structures are spread across the landscape, with the most notable two being one in a pentagonal shape and the other with a large shield-like dome in the middle of it.

We land in a large plaza in front of the domed building. Snow's group is already there and waiting for us.

I see her the moment I disembark from the hovercraft. Maybe it's just the fact that I haven't seen her in person for the last couple months; but she looks even more beautiful than before. Upon seeing us, I swear a wistful expression shows up on her face, but she quickly covers it up. I want to run up and scoop her in my arms.

But that would be a violation of the damn rules.

In any case, the point is rendered moot as President Snow waylays me before I can get any closer.

"Mr. Mellark, if you don't mind, I would actually like to have a word with you. You can talk to Katniss all you want afterwards."

I grit my teeth a bit, but nod in response. "So what do you have to say?"

Snow just shakes his head in mock disapproval. "When I said man-to-man, I did not mean in front of a whole group of people. Let's take a walk."

Both the Peacekeepers and members of my group look nervous at that suggestion. However, a look from Snow silences any amount of dissent, and I managed to convince the guys that I'll be fine. Next thing I know, I'm walking next to my most hated enemy, as the rest of the guys socialize with Katniss.

"So where are we going?"

"I think the Federal Legal Center would be a nice place to be."

"That what?"

He gestures over to the large domed building. "It was the governmental house for the UAF. By the way, before we get down to business, I think it would be productive if we are honest with each other. Wouldn't you agree?"

I shrug as we begin going up a large flight of marble steps, "Sure. Not like we have anything to hide, besides the usual stuff."

"Excellent. I knew you'd be an agreeable person."

"Good to know." _Not._ "In which case, let me ask you the obvious question. Say we manage to take the Capitol…"

"That is a very big hypothetical."

 _Of course it would be for you._ "Humor me. Anyways, if we manage to take the Capitol, what is to stop you from launching your nukes in a fit of spite?"

"A fair question. The basic answer is that it would defeat the purpose of the game."

I look at him with hostile incredulity. "You think this all is a game?" _He oversees games where kids kill each other; are you really so surprised?_

"Life itself is a game. Once you figure that out, things become much easier. So like I said, if you manage to take the Capitol, it is a fair win. Who am I to destroy what's left of this nation through being a sore loser?"

I know that we made that agreement towards honesty, but Snow's sincerity in that statement still takes me aback.

After we pass through a set of large ornate bronze doors and walk into what I assume to be the main hall, I take a look at my surroundings and allow my jaw to drop.

Snow seems to sense my current state of wonderment. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

"Yeah…" It really is. One could easily fit in Twelve's square inside the hall with more than plenty of room to spare; same goes for the Justice Building without its top even getting remotely close to the base of the dome. Intricate mosaics cover almost every square inch of the interior with many of them appearing to depict important historical events. The early morning light that dapples through windows on the east side of the building, as well as those surrounding the dome, illuminates the mosaics and gives a shimmering effect overall. In the very center, a bronze seal with a stylized eagle sits within a dry circular pool. The only real sign of neglect are the broken windows here and there, as well as the light patchwork of vegetation carpeting the floor.

The serene setting almost makes me forget that there's a mass murderer standing right next to me. Almost.

"Something as grand almost makes you wonder how such a powerful nation went from being at the top of the world to nothing," Snow muses before turning to me. "Mr. Mellark, do you know what happened to the UAF?"

"The Great Cataclysm happened." Everybody knows that.

"Yes, but a nation as powerful and advanced as this would have no doubt been able to weather out a couple volcanic eruptions. In fact, this very city was inhabited until the start of the Dark Days."

Well that explains the good condition of everything. "What happened to the people?"

"Nobody knows. They refused to join Panem and kept to themselves. Suddenly, the city was abandoned. But I digress. My question still stands: how was such a powerful nation able to be destroyed by a couple eruptions?"

"Well there was also the war that—"

"Exactly. There was the war. The Cataclysm may have destroyed civilization, but it was the wars that weakened it to the point of everything easily toppling over. So what makes you so sure this war won't lead to Panem's destruction?"

 _And we finally get to the point._ "What makes you think it will?"

Snow pauses to regard me dryly. "How Socratic of you. But I'll bite. We have fourteen factional entities, including the Capitol and District Thirteen, which have varying ideas and desires. We have a nation that is reliant on inter-district codependence to keep its populace fed. We have a hostile neighbor to the south that is looking for any semblance of weakness from this nation. And we have seen incidents from the Rebellion that are not exactly in the purview of civilized behavior."

The last comment makes me nervously fiddle around with the picture and tag of Julian that I have looped around my belt, but I stand my ground. "Those were isolated incidents and it's not like the Capitol has been exactly innocent in that regard. As for cooperation, we are already seeing a much more united front than what has been evident with the First Rebellion. It's not that hard to see things transferring to civic rule."

"Your ideals are all fine and dandy, but you seem to be hopelessly naive. Human nature shows us that it is much easier to fall prey to selfishness and spite than it is towards cooperation. In the end, chaos is the simplest conclusion."

"Well, let me ask you this Mr. President: what have you done to keep this from happening?"

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. What have you done to keep this country from falling into chaos? You've been in charge of this nation for at least a quarter of a century. Within that amount of time, you could have eased the districts back into prosperity. You could have allowed people to speak their minds. You could have had the Peacekeepers actual protect the people instead of terrorizing them. You could have stopped killing their children. If you actually allowed folks to be content, we probably wouldn't have to deal with this."

"Do you realize the backlash that would occur if all resources were suddenly reallocated? For all your contempt towards the Capitol, there is still the reality that the citizens are also members of this nation as well. What's more, they are the one's closest to the sources of power."

"I realize that. That's why I mention to making the process gradual. You could have done a lot within a couple decades.

"But no, you didn't even bother going gradual, but instead maintained the status quo in the Capitol. You not only allowed the Hunger Games to continue — by the way, I know that there were only supposed to be fourteen Games, but your immediate predecessor just had to modify the treaty and turn it into a source of entertainment — but began pimping-out victors. You created an entire class of slavery. And the deprivation in the districts continues. What did expect people to do; just roll over and accept their fate?"

"I did what I had to," Snow hisses. "Until now, stability was ensured in both the districts and the Capitol."

"How's that working out for you?" I gesture to his bloody napkin. I've learned from Finnick how Snow got to power through poisoning his rivals. Apparently, he didn't plan one of his assassination attempts quite right. Personally, if that's the result, it doesn't sound like it's worth it.

When he doesn't respond, I decide to continue:

"Let's say that you do manage to crush this Rebellion, what's to say that another one won't take its place?"

"By that time, I should be long gone."

"Ah… And that's where everything comes back to: you. In the end, for all your rationalizations about stability, most of this has been so you can have power. And you have been too chickenshit to challenge the Capitol's bloodlust and gluttony, because there would always be the risk that the Capitolites would be pissed-off and have your head. Well, this country may explode into chaos, but don't think for a second that you did not have a hand in loading the powderkeg."

Snow looks me over for quite a while before a wide smile appears. "It turns out that I was not mistaken in my assessment of you being intriguing. I look forward to your service."

"What do you mean?" I'm already uncomfortable with being in Snow's company, but I especially don't like where this is heading.

"You definitely have a way with words. Once this nasty business is over, and I come out victorious, I think that you would be a wonderful spokesman for the Capitol. A practical minister of propaganda if you will. Soon, you could easily replace Caesar Flickerman."

"Like hell I would work for you!" I snarl.

Snow answers my outburst with a cold glare. "The position is not voluntary. I promised Katniss that I would not harm you or Hawthorne. And like I said before, I am a man of my word. However, I have said nothing about leaving you two unaltered."

A chill runs up my spine at the last word. "Where does Gale come into this?"

"Well, in Mr. Hawthorne's case, it is apparent that he's quite exceptional at combat. He would be an excellent commando for important operations."

I have to give a mirthless laugh at that. "I you think Gale, of all people, is going to work for you, then you obviously don't know us at all."

"That's where the alteration comes in. In Hawthorne's case, it's not like he is going to have a big speaking position. So we have plenty of techniques to ensure obedience while keeping important skill sets intact.

"In your case, however, we can't be too aggressive with the techniques. So there are other ways of motivating people. Such as a certain adoptive family back in District Thirteen…"

 _How the hell does he know about that?_ "Leave the Hawthornes out of this!"

"I don't think you have any choice in the matter, Mr. Mellark. Just know this: once I win, I win. I always get what I want. And I look forward to you being a nice obedient puppet.

"And you know what? I think it will be an interesting way of showing everybody that the Capitol owns you. That you are little more than a piece in our Games."

That wording's too exact to be coincidental. All this time, I thought the conversation was private, but they still managed to listen in. And now, Snow is taking perverse glee in the idea that he can change me into a monster. He's looking forward to using my own personal thoughts against me, as well as those remaining few people that I care for.

_The conversation was supposed to be mine and Katniss' alone. How dare he. HOW DARE HE!_

A ringing noise seems to settle in my ear, and I clench the handle of my cane tightly to anchor myself.

"I wish I was there…" I muse in the slightest of tones.

"What's that?"

I look up to face the tyrant directly in the eyes. The ringing sound intensifies as the edge of my vision becomes cloudy and the scent of blood and roses washes over me. My voice is still barely audible as I continue:

"I wish I was there so that I can see the look on your face as your precious regime collapses around you; as your own citizens turn hostile. I wish I was there as confidence turns to desperation and you attempt to futilely salvage what's left. I wish I was there to laugh at your reign's official end."

"Now see here—"

I don't bother raising my voice when cutting him off: "No you see, _Coriolanus_. Because, once that happens — once you can't even call yourself a master of your own household — you better pray that someone gets to you before I do. Because if you're still alive by the time I walk into that mansion, I will find you; there is no place you can hide. And once I get you, I will make you watch as I take everything you hold dear. Any accomplishment you make, I will tear down. Any name you have made for yourself, I will erase. Anything you love, I will eliminate. The name 'Snow' will be nothing but a pitiful footnote in the history books. And after that is all done, I _will_ kill you.

"It won't be through bullet, blade, or poison. Oh no; that's too easy and impersonal. Instead, I will wrap my fingers around your throat until you choke on your own hate-laden blood. Until that smug grin of yours turns into a desperate grimace. Until the last light in those cold eyes flickers away to nothingness. Without any legacy to leave behind, you will be nothing. Nothing but a chunk of meat for the maggots. That is my promise."

I look up and around as a smile comes unbidden to my face. "Do you hear that, Coriolanus? It's the sound of your imminent demise. It's coming. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."

I take strong satisfaction as the amusement in Snow's eyes falters and is replaced by hardness.

"My… It seems that we aren't so different after all…"

And just like that, the ringing lifts away and my vision clears, leaving me with extreme clarity of what I just said during my little lecture.

"We're nothing alike," I manage to whisper. _Are we?_

"Mmhmm…" He takes a look at his watch, and his amused disposition returns. "Well, it looks like I'll be heading out soon. This has been quite an… enlightening discussion, and I look forward to seeing you again."

I don't bother following him out. Instead, I manage to find enough of my voice to yell at the retreating figure, "We're nothing alike! DO YOU HEAR ME, SNOW? WE. ARE. NOTHING. ALIKE!"

As my words echo in the cavernous hall, Snow doesn't stop to turn around, or even slow his pace, when he responds with a chuckle: "You keep telling yourself that…"

Once he slips out of sight, I stumble backwards, collapse onto the ground, and cradle my head in my hands. _What the hell was that? What the hell did I just say? I sound like my mother!  
_

I take out the picture of Julian and look at it to remember the other promise I had made: that I would not lose myself in this war. _Am I already breaking that promise?_

Had Coriolanus Snow always intended to be a tyrant, or had the Capitol twisted him? Sure there were guys like Gallienus and Agrippa who were already rotten to the core. Still, the majority of the Snows sounded like they had Panem's best intentions at heart. Even Justinian, who put down the First Rebellion and created the damn Games in the first place, appeared to care for the districts; if he hadn't been assassinated, the Games may have ended a long time ago. But in the end, it seems that absolute power eventually corrupted the Office of the President over time.

I wonder if all this scheming will also turn me into some kind of monster. I'd rather die before that happens.

Several minutes pass after Snow's departure — I still haven't moved from my spot — when somebody casts a shadow over me. I don't bother looking to see who it is — probably Gale — when I mutter, "Yeah yeah, I know. I'll be up in minute."

"Well, don't be in such a hurry." The voice is dry… and decidedly female.

I look up in surprise and manage to croak, "Hey."

Katniss smirks a bit and returns my lame greeting before plopping down next to me on an especially mossy area; it makes me snort a bit considering the fancy silk gown she wears. Gale's indeed here, but he's busy standing a distance away off to the side while gaping at the building's interior.

"What do you think?" I ask her, as I gesture around at our surroundings.

She seems to look up in awe for a while. "It's beautiful."

"I think that I may prefer to have this as our Capitol. It probably wouldn't be too much work to fix things around here. Some renovations here, some rebuilding outside, and the city would probably be as good as new."

"I'd like to keep a good chunk of the forest around though."

I give her a wry smile at that. "Why am I not surprised? So… how are things going?"

We catch up on lost time. Katniss tells me how her family's doing, as well as the fact that Effie, Portia, and Avoxes have been helping her. I mention a bit of my work, as well as Gale being my student, which we have a good laugh over; from the scowl he's shooting us, I'm pretty sure he knows we're talking about him. We don't talk about her marriage or the baby growing within her. The conversation's about as mundane as can be, but — besides the fact that we aren't allowed to go any further than that — it's actually something that I need. It's clear one of us is the stronger one, I can feel myself pulled back to reality by her mere presence.

Katniss looks like she wants to say something more and important, but she settles on giving me a simple hug. It isn't anything more than what one would give a friend or family member, but I still savor it as energy flows from her through me. With this close proximity, I notice that under her floral perfume, she still has traces of the outdoors lingering about her.

As she breaks away, she mutters, "Remember to stay alive."

Such a simple phrase, but it's one that full of more meaning than most people can understand. It causes me to give her a genuine smile. "Thanks for the tip, sweetheart."

Both of us bark out a laugh at the slight ridiculousness of the memory clashing with the current situation, especially how tense things were when we last spoke those words. However, all things considered, the situation feels fitting. We don't say anything else when Katniss finally heads out. She stops briefly at the doorway, giving me a wave and sad smile which I instantly return, before being escorted out of sight. And the slight feeling of emptiness returns.

As I listen to the sound of a hovercraft lifting off and flying away, Gale trots over and offers a hand to help me up, which I take. _The sooner we head out, the better._

"What the hell happened?" he asks as I brush myself off.

"You saw what happened: Katniss and I caught up on stuff and said our goodbyes." I know that's not what he means, but I really don't want to get into it.

However, he's persistent. "I meant with Snow."

"I just had a nice little intellectual debate with our esteemed adversary," I say airily in an attempt to diffuse Gale's worried expression. When his expression doesn't relent, I sigh, wave my hand around dismissively, and say with the same airy tone, "Oh yeah, he may have threatened to turn us both into puppets of the Capitol, and I also _might_ have mentioned that I was looking forward to destroying everything he loves and personally choking the life out of him."

His eyes widen almost comically, but he keeps his response to a simple, "Oh…"

_Yeah. "Oh…" is about right.  
_

~oOo~

I'm relaxing in the observation room when Haymitch barges over to me.

"Alright, boy," he growls. "What the hell's going on?"

I was planning on explaining anyways but, just for the hell of it, decide to feign ignorance for a little while longer. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you play coy with me. Thirteen's to the east of us. So why are headed going southwest?"

That gets everybody else's attention. _Might as well spill the beans._ "Because we're going to Three."

Haymitch motions me to continue while mouthing _, "Why?"_

"I have an appointment in Central."

Comprehension finally begins to dawn on his face, with a dash of panic added in. "Why?" he repeats out loud.

"I'm going to convince them to join the side of the Rebellion."

Upon the last piece of news, he simply sinks into the nearest sofa and drags his hands over his face. Confusion is apparent on everybody else except for Beetee and Boggs.

"Boy, if we live through this…" Haymitch mutters as he shakes his head. "Next time you decide to do something suicidal, please leave me out."


	17. Central

As the hovercraft flies along the Great River and along the outskirts of East City, I look into the distance at the former site of a large pre-Cataclysm arch; now all that's seen today is a pair of two slightly-curved pillars jutting out of the ground as their steel panels gleam in the afternoon sunlight. Thank the Great Quake of 164, which devastated the city and necessitated the relocation of much of the population and industry to West City. In the years after, its focus became manufacturing and freight logistics for Three. Now, what remains of the city is in ruins. The only possible consolation for those living there is that West City is in even worse shape due to the Decimation.

Even with the ceasefire, we have to remain careful as Three's still Capitol-held. So we wait until we've gone several miles south of the city before crossing the river into the district and heading straight west. Once we find the path we need over a transport line, Beetee calls me up to the cockpit.

"You called for me?" I ask when getting there.

He nods. "I want you to have a good idea of what you're getting yourself into." After a while, the hovercraft takes a sharp left turn a good distance before the transport line branches at an intersection — reaching the intersection itself would mean going over the regional Peacekeeper headquarters — and travels in a southerly direction. "We're starting to get close, so it shouldn't be long until we're contacted."

Almost on cue, a dispassionate and almost bored voice hails us. "Hovercraft-XIII32, please uncloak and state your intention, or turn around and go back to whatever hole you came from."

Beetee answers immediately in a just-as-dispassionate manner. "It seems you already know our name. It's just as fair that we know yours before revealing any details."

"This is Piasa-8. Now please state your intention."

At Beetee's signal, the pilot flips a switch which supposedly uncloaks us. "This is Volts. I've come bearing a harmless baker who just wants to share bread with the Commandant."

"Password?"

"What password? Porus thinks such things are only good for dependant lackeys who can't think for themselves and deserve to be torn apart by mutts."

At once the voice becomes chipper. "Beetee! Glad to have you back!"

"It's good to be back, Theodora. So you finally passed your pilot exam. Everything you hoped for?"

"Oh sure… Nothing like patrolling over the forest for hours straight at a time." The comment drips with sarcasm. "Then again, I do get to fly the Piasa, and scaring the shit out of intruders has its perks."

"I'm sure it does… Can you lead us the rest of the way?"

"Sure thing. Just let me uncloak first."

Beetee quickly turns to the pilot. "Remember: Keep. This. Aircraft. Steady."

_Why are you being so insi—OH SHIT!_

What I assume is the Piasa uncloaks alright… It uncloaks just a couple meters in front of us with several large cannons trained directly on the cockpit. Our pilot lets off a loud and shrill string of curses but manages not to convert his shock to his piloting skills.

As the guns retract, Theodora comes back on line; cackling I might add. "Hey, did it work?"

Beetee looks us up and down before responding. "Sorry to say no bladders were loosened. But you definitely made an impression."

"Oh outsiders… You should have heard one Peacekeeper. Squealed like some Capitol girl and almost crashed his hovercraft in the process."

That actually makes the old victor let out a hearty chuckle. "Not so smug when up against something that shoots back."

"No they aren't. Well anyways, we're almost there. There'll be a guide waiting to take you the rest of the way."

"Don't tell me…" he mutters under his breath.

"Yeah… Sorry."

"Dammit!"

"Well, you can't say there won't be a warm welcome. Okay, slow to thirty knots and prepare for landing."

As we putter along, I see gun emplacements along the route swiveling to follow us like a line of predators watching their prey move by.

Theodora seems to sense a bit of my uneasiness, because she states, "Sorry about the point defenses. You know the SOP."

"No worries," Beetee remarks and nudges me to look ahead. "Welcome to Central, Peeta."

Viewing Central from the air is much different than viewing it from the confines of a train that passes into a tunnel, and I'm hit with the full realization of why nobody bothers with the spot. Central isn't just a town with a military base attached; it's a freaking citadel. Several rings of walls encircle the entire community and bristle with artillery. The more I look, the more I notice something else:

"Beetee, is it just me, or does the air over it shimmer?"

He fixes me with a pleased expression. "I'm glad you noticed. After all, it _did_ kill you once."

My jaw almost drops. "They installed a force field?"

"Why not? We're the ones who improved the technology. How else do you think I knew about the weak spot?"

There's a certain line at which preparedness turns into paranoia. I suspect this place crossed it a long time ago.

"Alright," Theodora announces, "I think you can handle yourselves from here. Back to patrolling for me."

"Have fun…" Beetee chirps.

"Hahahagofuckyourself. Anyways, hope we catch up before you folks head out. Peace." At that, the Piasa lifts up and recloaks as we approach the hangar. It's a long structure extending a good distance past the innermost and highest defensive wall; that it covers the tracks explains why the view was blocked during the train ride and why the station felt like it was underground. The first half of the hangar is open to the sky, while the half adjacent to the wall is covered; in that covered area and further in, I can see parked rows of unfamiliar and intimidating aircraft as maintenance crews scurry around about their business.

When we reach the split gateway-flanked entrance, another professional voice comes up: "Hovercraft-XIII32, prepare for remote override in 3… 2… 1… Remote override executed."

And just like that, control of the hovercraft is wrested away from our pilot, and the vehicle drives itself to its parking spot. Thirteen and the Capitol have similar systems, but a chill still runs up my spine: if they so wish, the people here can keep us at their own convenience, and we're too outnumbered to protest.

As there's nothing more to show, Beetee motions for me to go to the loading bay and tells everybody else over the intercom to do the same before meeting us there. While we wait, he gives us some ground rules, with his voice surprisingly firm and authoritative during the lecture.

"Just remember, we are guests at Central's convenience. They are not obligated to receive us, so your best behavior is expected. At the same time, act natural; we have a dim view of stuffiness and insincerity.

"Any weapon you have on person, you're allowed to carry with you for self-defense. However, any intent to harm either the inhabitants or other guest is considered a severe breach of hospitality, which will not be tolerated.

"You may see some things which may bother you." For some reason, he seems to focus on Haymitch. "Well, keep it to yourself and try not to make a scene. It will endear you to nobody, and the point of this is to make a good impression.

"Also, related to that…" This time, his attention is firmly on me. "Just know that your petty notions of morality have no place here."

_Petty?_

I feel like spitting out a harsh retort but manage to push it down in favor of something a bit more diplomatic. "What do you mean?"

"This is a place for scientific and technological progress. Morals are nice and all, but it can get a bit restrictive. Getting all sanctimonious will be amusing at best and offensively condescending at worst."

"Doesn't it bother anybody that much of this 'progress' is all going into the Games though?"

"Of course it does. There's few things more degrading than watching your achievements being used for nothing more than entertainment for a bunch of hedonists. And it's not like the Capitol adopts even half of the working advancements developed. Lots of wasted potential..."

_That's not that I meant…_

Beetee seems to pick up on me finding his answer unsatisfactory. "But if you are talking about objection to the Capitol and Games themselves, why should Central object? Everybody's well-fed, nobody of age gets reaped, and we get to do what we do best. So unless things become personal, there's no reason to attack the Capitol."

"I notice that you say 'we' a lot."

"I've lived and worked here all of my life as a victor. Hell, I've even helped give advice to the good Commandant during her reforms of the place. Despite my current living accommodations, I still consider Central my home."

"If that's the case, then why did you and Wiress get involved in the Rebellion?"

A pained expression briefly surfaces on his face. "Things became personal…"

As the door drops down, another question nags at me. "By the way, this guide; you don't really seem that eager to reunite. Something wrong with that guy?"

That earns a sigh. "Oh, he's a good kid. He's just a bit—"

"Uncle Benny!"

Beetee just closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "… enthusiastic… Hi Luce."

"'Uncle'?" I whisper.

"No relation," the victor mutters back. Due to the years that have past, it's easy to be unaware that Beetee's original name is actually Benjan Thonsin and that the current one is a monicker that stuck after his Games.

Plutarch wasn't kidding when he said that the Guardians look different from everybody else. The first thing I notice is the color scheme. Instead of the white of Peacekeepers, gray of Thirteen's soldiers, or ramshackle nature of district rebels, the Guardians' uniforms contain a complex patterning consisting of various shades of greens, browns, and grays. In general, their outfits are also lighter and more utilitarian than what the Peacekeepers have.

The bright-eyed boy whom I assume is Lucius is even more lightly dressed — it doesn't mean he isn't armed, as a knife and pistol are visible on his person — because in place of a helmet and rugged uniform of the guys around him, he wears a cap with an abstract symbol embroidered on it and a dark short-sleeved uniform that reveals a myriad of tattoos covering his arms. An especially noticeable design is that of a draconic serpent looping up around the back of his neck to terminate with its head at the right base of his jaw. The other thing, besides his uniform, that seems to differentiate this guy from the other Guardians is the bag that's slung over his shoulder; on it is embroidered a serpent entwined around a staff.

Without any prior warning he runs over with a wide grin and picks Beetee up in a big bear hug. "We knew you'd come back!"

Beetee, to his credit, manages to keep his composure, though not before sending the rest of us a glare for chuckling at the scene. "It's good to see you too, kid." Despite the victor's previous bemusement, I don't miss how warm and genuine his statement is. It's almost reminiscent of how Dad was.

After he salutes Boggs, the youth turns his attention to the rest of us and clarifies Beetee's comment about "enthusiasm".

Because what follows is him gushing over our performance in our respective Games, be it Haymitch's trick with the force field or my camouflage skills. He then moves onto my performance during the Rebellion and how he's confident I'll get Katniss back. Even Gale gets some compliments for his shooting skills. I don't know how long he yammers at us, and I'm pretty sure one of the Guardians is shaking her head and mouthing, "You poor bastards…"

Finally, he runs out of compliments and introduces himself in one breath: "Name's Lucius Stone, but most people call me Luce. Either works. I'm pretty much going to be your guide during your visit and will be happy to answer any questions. Well, unless they pertain to stuff you're not allowed to know. In which case, I'll probably have to kill you." He laughs, which makes the rest of us join him awkwardly. "No seriously, if you break any rules or anything, there'd probably be a termination order on your head. And that'd make me sad. Fact."

The casual way he says this is a bit disconcerting. Then again, I'm surrounded by experienced killers yet still consider many of them my friends; so I have no room to judge.

"I take it that there's a car waiting for us outside?" I ask as I take a couple steps to the exit.

"Stop!" Lucius' frantic outburst makes us all freeze in midstride as he brings out a basket full of those crispy salted rolls Three's known for. "You need your bread."

"Accepting bread and salt means you're officially a guest here," Beetee explains while pointedly giving us a look that states, _"So eat the damn bread."_

Now that I think about it, bread was offered to us before we got off the train during the Tour. I wonder if they fry up a giant batch for the audiences that come as well.

After we go through the ritual, Lucius gestures for us to follow him. Boggs and his soldiers elect to stay behind with the hovercraft which leaves me with Beetee, Haymitch, Gale, and the camera crew; fortunately, filming is allowed so long as nothing sensitive is recorded.

"Almost forgot to mention," Lucius states, "there's no car. Powers that be think that it'd be healthier if we walk to the Tower. Besides, it give more time to see the sights."

I have the feeling that just "seeing the sights" isn't the reason they're making us walk. Oh well, it's just another challenge. Besides, entering from the hanger by foot — that alone takes a while — definitely gives a better view of the community than being driven through a tunnel. In front of us is a long spacious plaza, and looming at the opposite end of said plaza is the Tower.

The absurdly tall structure — probably rivals the Games headquarters in height — is clad in black stone with gold accents here and there, and three golden spires crown the top with the middle spire being twice the height of the other two flanking it. I previously just called it the Justice Building, but as both Beetee and Lucius explain, it not only houses all of the main administrative and military offices but also various community and civic centers. Over its imposing entrance is a massive — large enough to discern from the distance I'm at — golden relief of the Chimera.

Without the banners, I can indeed see the Chimera all over the place. The design's mainly emblazoned on the side of buildings, but it also takes the form of two massive statues flanking the tower's entrance and looking out into plaza; not a single trace of the Capitol's seal. Besides the Chimera, the adornments on the buildings tend to veer on the abstract side, with tons of geometric forms and streamlined figures. Most of the structures also appear to be covered in vegetation, as if nature had completely taken over the setting. Like the Tower, many buildings are built vertically though none even approach half of the its height. Despite the clear display of power, the buildings themselves still seem to be on the functional side, unlike the flashy forms in the Capitol.

The sight is enough to make to breath out my thoughts in a whispered query: "How could you afford to build all of this?" 

"Most of the Citadel was actually built before Panem during the Long Winter. After that and the pre-Dark Days additions, the overhaul we did after Porus took charge was a cakewalk." Beetee states. "But even if that weren't the case, the Commandant endeared herself enough to Agrippa Snow to get a blank check. Also helps that Central was neutral during the First Rebellion, and the current population's barely a fraction of what it's originally built for." 

As the old victor nods to a couple passing by, I notice another contrast. Whereas the impoverished Victory Tour crowd greeted us with heated enthusiasm, the clearly healthy people currently milling about the plaza gaze upon our motley crew with interest — plus some excited waves at Beetee — but little more than that. And unlike those in the hanger, the Guardians patrolling around the place don light uniforms like Lucius.

Before I can think too much about the implications of the relationship between the security and inhabitants, I'm interrupted from my thoughts by to a sharp intake of breath from Haymitch. For some reason he's gotten very pale and is looking at me with wide eyes. Beetee has his hand clasped on his shoulder and is muttering into his ear; probably some reminders of the rules.

Lucius, who seems completely oblivious to this, cheerfully points in my direction. "Hey, you made a friend!" I take a look at what he's pointing at and immediately figure out what has gotten into Haymitch.

Because sitting on my shoulder is a small candy-pink bird with a long and very sharp-looking beak; the same kind I saw on a certain video during a certain trip to the Capitol.

Judging from Lucius' and Beetee's relaxed attitude — barring the latter focused on keeping my mentor from having a complete freakout — there shouldn't be any cause for concern; in fact, I now notice a considerable number of those birds flitting above us. However, considering what I have seen that thing capable of, I still have to exert some considerable self-control to keep from making a scene.

_Pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmeplease…_

However the bird just cocks its head at me and trills out a melodious tune before setting off to join its buddies in the air. Though not before taking several strands of my hair with it. At this point, I don't even bother trying to fend birds off — and not just because I'm concerned about making a scene — and simply focus on ignoring the suppressed snickering emanating from Gale and Beetee.

_What the hell kind of place sets dangerous mutts loose within its walls?_

To top things off, I actually see people casually feeding them and other creatures that look too bizarre to not be muttations. There are even kids throwing chunks of meat to those squirrels from the Quell.

As a way to distract myself from that disturbing scene, I try to find something else to focus on.

"Out of curiosity, what does that supposed to represent?" I ask while pointing to that serpent emblem on Lucius' bag.

"Oh this? The asklepian represents my Corpsman status," he states as if that explains everything… which it doesn't.

Fortunately, Beetee elaborates in simpler terms. "He's a combat medic, and that bag's his medical supply kit. A Corpsman's simply a Guardian with in-depth medical training."

"Exactly! So I can heal as easily as I can kill!" Lucius chirps then pauses. "On second thought, killing's easier but healing's more rewarding."

 _Cheery thought._ "I take it that's what the serpent on your neck for?"

"Nope. My asklepian's firmly on my back. This," he gestures to his neck, "is part of the Chimera that's on the front. I'd show you, but I can't exactly take my shirt off while on duty"

"You guys really seem to like your tattoos." Seriously, everybody I see, be they security or civilian, seems to have some sort of tattoo visible on them. Even young kids have small simplistic designs which will no doubt be elaborated on down the road.

"Well, what better way to show identity than to place a clear and lasting mark on our very bodies?"

 _If that's the case…_ "What about you, Bee—"

My query is cut short as Beetee anticipates my question and pulls up his sleeve with a smirk. On the underside of his wrist is a small chimera. "Really, Peeta… Considering that you helped strip me naked once, I'm pretty surprised you never noticed it before."

"Well, naked you wasn't exactly something I wanted to focus on. Also, I was a bit… preoccupied with, you know, the fact that you were covered in blood and bleeding to death at the time. A design like that is kind of easy to miss."

"With good reason. You already know that the Capitol doesn't like others knowing about Central. Being a victor-slash-mentor meant that I couldn't afford to show it off on Capitol television. Actually, tattooing is common in District Three, but it's not as extensive as here," he explains. "And in case you're wondering, Wiress also had one just like this."

At the mention of the victor's name, Lucius' jovial attitude crashes and burns. "By the way, I'm really sorry about Aunty Wiress."

Beetee just waves him off. "You weren't the one who killed her, and she knew the risks."

That rationale doesn't dispel the morose expression on his face. "Still… Do you know before she left, she helped fix my communicator?"

If that comment was supposed to segue into a less depressing topic, it sure works, though probably not in the intended manner. "You broke it _again_? How the hell did you do that? Those are supposed to be practically indestructible!" Beetee looks like he's about to throttle the poor guy.

Lucius, in a panic, begins waving his hands in front of himself in a half-placating, half-defensive manner. "Hey, ' _practically_ indestructible' don't mean full indestructibility." That just seems to rile Beetee up further. "It ain't completely my fault this time! The report backs me up!"

Beetee stops advancing, but it doesn't mean that he looks any less ticked. "Does Joseph know?"

The panic on Lucius' face doubles at that query. "If you're this angry, how do you think Joe would react if he found out?"

"I'm not angr—" Beetee's interrupted by me and Haymitch silently calling him out on his bullshit. He takes a moment to take in a few deep breaths. "Okay maybe I'm a bit angry. It's just that you're sometimes a bit of a hazard to yourself and others. I'm concerned about you, that's all." _Says the guy who attacked me with a crowbar just to test one of his devices…_

"Sorry…"

"It's alright. On second thought, I probably don't want to know how you broke your communicator. And no, I won't tell Joseph."

"Also, please don't tell Ma."

"You don't have to worry about that. So, Wiress really fixed it?"

"Actually, I think she made some improvements in the transmission and clarity. So it works even better than before." He looks down and fiddles aimlessly with his uniform. "She was always so helpful. Lots of people here miss her… I know I do…"

"I know. I miss her too." As he gently pats the Corpsman on the back, Beetee tells us, "Wiress was always the more social victor."

Suddenly Lucius' attitude takes an abrupt upswing when he turns to me. "At least Katniss killed the one directly responsible!"

I don't think that's something she's proud of, but I don't have the heart to mention it. So I decide to change the subject onto something a bit more trivial; something that I notice whenever Lucius speaks.

"Have you ever thought it interesting that you seem to have a bit of a Three accent?" In fact, that slightly musical twang — eerily similar to what we have in Twelve, now that I think about it — that I've come to associate with District Three actually takes full precedence, with little trace of the stressed and rolling tones that tend to associate with Two.

He shrugs at that. "Never really noticed. Any reason it interests you?"

"I just expected something a bit more… Two-ish," I respond — rather lamely — which just makes him chortle.

"Well, it don't make much sense for a Capitol-born boy to talk like a Twofer."

 _Wait, what?_ "Really? You sound nothing like a Capitolite."

"Yeah, well Ma brought me here when I was little. Reckon it's been over… eleven years… I think. Or is it fifteen? Thirteen?"

After a while, the Corpsman actually begins using his fingers to count while chewing his lip in concentration. The scene makes Beetee grumble, "You're can identify every muscle in the human body and utilize proper medication for any diagnosis… yet still can't subtract from twenty. Why am I not surprised?"

"Hey, arithmetic kills your soul! Fact," Lucius counters while nodding earnestly at me. Finally, he snaps his fingers as if coming across some life-changing epiphany. "Twelve! At the very least, sis and I lived here for over a cycle… plus a few years. So enough time to wash away any Capitol trace. Ain't exactly complaining."

 _Don't exactly blame him._ "In other words, you've been here for most of your life then."

"Yep! Wouldn't trade it for anything, either. Great place, great people… Heck, the victors have been like parents — no more than Ma, of course — ever since I got here."

Well that explains the titles, plus the way he and Beetee have been able to banter like that. The victor never seemed to allow anybody to get close to him, much less give him a bear hug.

"Fat load of good that did," Beetee grumbles a bit more. "Since you were intent on joining the Corps, I hoped that you'd become a combat engineer. But nooo… you just had to go and take the medical path."

"Aw… you know Lucy's better suited for all that tech-y stuff."

"True. In the end, it's probably for the best; otherwise, you'd probably get the whole citadel blown up on accident. Anyways, can't say I'm not proud of you. You especially proved yourself several month ago."

"I was just doing my job," Lucius mutters with a shrug, which is soon followed with a grimace. "And the less it's brought up, the better. Though speaking of medical stuff…"

He turns to me. "I have a couple things to bring up. First, I notice that your prosthesis seems to be acting up."

I brush off his concern. "It's not that bad." Which is a complete lie. While functional, the thing's starting to seize up more. The last thing I need is for it to fail me in a life-or-death situation.

"Your gait says otherwise. That's why we're offering to have that leg replaced."

"Really?" That seems pretty generous.

"Yeah, really. And you don't have to worry about cost. Think of it as a token contribution to your efforts." _Assuming that I can get you guys on our side._ "That, and the guys in Medical are developing a new prototype and want a test subject."

"Oh." Suddenly the offer doesn't sound as altruistic. Then again, things can't be much worse than what I have now. "Sure, if it's allowed."

He seems ecstatic at my acceptance. "Don't you worry about that. I'll also let the Medical know as soon as possible. Just some forewarning:" he notes while lowering his voice to whisper, "they're kinda weird…"

I decide not to voice my thoughts on that last statement. "Was there something else?"

"Oh yes! Primrose? Katniss' sister?"

"What about her?" I ask cautiously.

"Well, from her interviews during both Games, it's clear that she has amazing medical expertise for her age. Many folks here are impressed. So once this is all over, if she wants, she's free to come here to study. We'll smuggle her in if need be."

Now _that's_ a generous offer. And knowing Prim, she'd probably jump at the opportunity. "Well, we have to win this first."

"True. Just saying that the offer's on the table."

"Thanks." _And I really mean it._

The Corpsman just gives me a wide grin. "No problem. Oh, we're here by the way."

As we get closer to the Tower, Lucius' demeanor shifts drastically. His smile slips away and is replaced by a mask of mechanical professionalism, and his posture straightens out. And once we reach the base of the Tower's steps, he stops and stands at attention to salute the woman waiting several steps above us.

Haymitch once joked that Porus was simply an older version of Katniss with a darker tan, and in all honesty I can see where's he's coming from. The woman is short and petite, with her straight anthracitic hair set in a braid; not to mention the perpetual scowl she wears. However that's where most of the similarities end. Instead of hanging down freely, that braid of hers is wrapped in a tight bun at the back of her head. In contrast to Katniss' usual scowl of irritation, the expression that Porus has reminds me of a predator that sees an uninvited visitor wandering into her territory. And her brown eyes don't soften the hard glare that she gives us; if anything, they are dark enough to give the impression of being fathomless pools lacking any sort of compassion.

Beetee mentioned that she was officially appointed here just a couple years before Snow came to power — Haymitch also confirmed that she was just as intimidating during his Tour as she is today — which means that she has be at least fifty. However, the Commandant doesn't look any older than her forties, if that. Instead of the white Head Peacekeeper uniform she wore during the Tour, what she has on now is an olive-green uniform consisting of a coat and full-length skirt, as well as a sword that hangs off her coat belt. None of that is more physically distinguishing than the ornate mark in the middle of her forehead. I have no clue what it means, but it probably has some strong significance.

In the end, and despite her age, stature, and formal outfit, I have a strong feeling she's perfectly capable kicking my ass, and I have no intention of testing out said feeling.

Flanking the Commandant are Jon Charlton, Mayor of District Three, and Andri Lewis, Provost of R&D Affairs. I'm informed that while Mayor Charlton officially did not support the Rebellion, it's clear that he turned a blind eye to the protests in the cities, as well as later developments leading up to the outbreak of war. I know nothing of Provost Lewis other than her simply in charge of managing research that goes on here as well as procurements from the Capitol. In the end though, it's clear which one of the three is in charge of Central itself.

Also laying at Porus' feet are two dogs that are too bizarre not to be mutts. They're tan in overall coloring, yet there is a set of black stripes that go along their backs all the way to the base of their stiff tails. Not to mention that no normal dog should be able to open its mouth that wide while yawning.

Porus is the first to break the silence. "At ease, Stone." Almost immediately, Lucius' posture relaxes, though the air of professionalism doesn't go away, nor does he acknowledge us.

The next person she addresses is Beetee. To my surprise, she actually greets him with considerable warmth. "Beetee, it's good to see you. I trust you are well?"

"It's good to see you too, Porus, and I'm quite glad to be home again. I do wish the circumstances were better though."

"Don't we all…" Upon glancing back at the rest of us, the hardness in her eyes returns. "Can't say that I'm glad to see the rest of you. Didn't I tell you not to bring trouble here, Mellark?"

 _Okay, show no weakness._ "You did, during the Tour, ma'am." I manage to keep my voice even and diplomatic, despite my fraying nerves; I swear those eyes are draining my energy. "However recent events currently make this unavoidable."

"Do they?"

"I believe so. In any case, I'm grateful that you've decided to receive us anyways, if only to talk."

Porus seems to appraise me for the longest time before making a noncommittal grunt. "Yes, well, we'll see how grateful you are when this is over." She gestures towards me, and only me, to follow her as she turns back to the Tower. "Let's not waste any more time. For the rest of you, Beetee and Lance Corporal Stone will be serving as your guides and hosts. Stone, I'm giving them Class-II clearance. Dismissed."

"Yes, Commander." After Lucius gives another salute, it's as if a switch is flipped, and he's back to his cheerful self as he leads everybody else to wherever.

Leaving me to enter the dragon's den alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the movie casting, my headcanon Beetee and Wiress are Asian in ethnicity; however, it's not Three's dominant ethnicity, nor is it "pure". It's also not hard for surnames and cultural practices to survive both the Cataclysm and Dark Days.
> 
> If it's not apparent, the Guardians are (very loosely) based off the USMC (with some USAF; yes, the irony is palpable); of course here, Corpsmen aren't from a separate branch. To further real-world analogues, I consider the Peacekeepers fairly similar to the IJA (Schutzstaffel is a bit cliche), Thirteen to the Red Army, and the rebels to the FSA.


	18. Pursuasion

There were many settings that I expected to have my discussion or debate with Central's Commandant: an office desk, a conference room, an interrogation chamber…

What I did not expect was for her, as we head towards the entrance, to ask this: "Have you eaten anything recently, Mellark?"

"Well, I've had some ration packs on the way, ma'am." _Mmm… just like home… not._ Then again, it's not like it's any worse than what I always have in Thirteen.

Porus seems to think the same and scoffs, "That hardly sounds substantial. In which case, would you like to have our discussion over a meal?"

The offer sounds really tempting, but I have a strong suspicion — I've been having a lot of suspicions lately — that it matters a lot as to what kind of answer I give and how I phrase it; the way that Porus seems to be analyzing my every move gives some weight to my suspicions. On one hand, to refuse would no doubt be insulting to my host; also my stomach is starting to become distressingly audible. On the other hand, to accept outright would probably come across as being greedy; that and also this seems the type of place where accepting something without question puts one within a dangerous debt.

So I decide to make things a bit open-ended. "If it's not too much trouble for you, I would find that most welcome."

She actually seems to give a slight appreciative nod at my response. "Not at all. And in case you are wondering, your companions will most likely be taken out to dinner during this time anyways. Now if you'll follow me…"

Passing through the threshold, I can't help but continue to compare my current experiences with those of the Tour. Yeah, there are no Peacekeepers milling about or Capitol banners covering everything up. But as we enter the spacious main hall, my mind still hearkens back to the dinner we had in the middle of that very space. Admittedly, it's a bit silly considering that — besides the restless crowds and Porus' frigid reception — the whole visit here was pretty unremarkable. But I guess I'm condemned to look at everything in relation to the Games.

Unlike the exterior, the hall is clad in polished stones containing various light shades of red and tan. It runs the entire front-to-back length of the building and, at what look to be about a hundred feet, seems to be as high as it's wide. Columns rise up three quarters, with the top quarter being taken up by mural that appears to portray the history of science and technology. Other than the mural — even that's fairly stylistic — the geometric theme that seems an architectural hallmark of the community pervades the interior, from the columns to the ceiling, which has an enigmatic set of designs on it. At the opposite end, a floor-to-ceiling window casts down dappled light and seems to bathe the immediate area in a slight blue-green glow, which contrasts with the warm yellow given off by the light fixtures. It takes several moments to realize that the area beyond the window is an aquatic environment complete with what seems to various creatures swimming around; some of them look pretty big.

As tempted as I am to run over there and press my face up against the glass to watch the fish swim by, we don't get anywhere near the window. In fact, halfway into the hall, I only get a brief amount of time to take in everything before we immediately take a hard right to reach an elevator. Charlton and Lewis go their separate ways, leaving just us two and the dogs to enter the transport.

Yeah, I've ridden in glass elevators many times before, and yeah the place where I've ridden them is a location that I'm not too fond of. That doesn't mean that the novelty has worn off. So I have a barely-suppressed feeling of giddiness as we lift up.

_Wheee…_

With the doors being glass as well, I can see in all directions. Above the hall, we pass through several floors of an extensive library, then a dark shaft, before emerging out into the open to allow me to see the landscape unfolding before us as we climb up the side of the building; I think I can spot the guys from here.

"Enjoying the view?" Porus' dry tone makes me break my concentration to look back at her.

I give her a wry smile in response. "Am I that apparent?"

Her stoic expression doesn't change one bit. "Yes."

 _You must be the life of the party…_ I decide that it's best that for me not to voice that opinion.

"Oh, by the way…" I unclasp the box attached to my side and offer it to her. "This is for you."

When the Commandant makes no move for the gift, I feel the need to add, "I'm not trying to bribe you or anything. Think of it as a token of appreciation for receiving us."

Fortunately, that explanation appears satisfactory as she takes the box and opens it up, revealing a set of various cookies. Unlike the ones made for my district visits, which are now mostly done by Thirteen's cooks, these were solely made by me.

What surprises me a bit is that, as the elevator slows to a stop and we step into a foyer, she immediately takes one out and bites into it.

After she finishes it off she comments, "I have to say, it appears that your culinary reputation is quite justified."

"Thanks."

My bemusement must show, because she asks, "Something the matter?"

"I'm just a bit surprised you didn't screen it for contaminants or anything."

"Well, it would be fairly counterproductive and idiotic for you to poison me. And I don't take you for an idiot."

That statement reeks of overconfidence, but it isn't exactly false. Besides it being wrong, I have nothing to gain from poisoning Porus. Even if we were somehow able to escape the place in time, the fact remains that we would likely have Central firmly as an active enemy, making the Rebellion even harder to win. Not to mention that there's a huge likelihood that a vacancy would Snow allow to appoint a commander that's more in-step with him. Which makes me wonder…

"If you don't mind me asking, do you screen the food the Capitol gives you?"

"Of course."

Porus' frankness takes me aback. She has to know that stating her distrust of the Capitol potentially gives me ammo to use. Though at the same time, it's possibly non-news considering that Central doesn't seem to trust any outsider. And from her lack of hesitation with the cookies, it's obvious that she doesn't see me as a personal threat. Well, frankly, it's nice to not be viewed with suspicion for a change; I just hope that doesn't translate to her thinking me weak.

I'm instructed to take off my shoes before we proceed further. After removing my boots and sock, and hanging my coat up — since there are no cameras here, there's really no need to wear it; Porus is doing the exact same thing with hers, though she's still wearing a uniform underneath said coat — I follow the Commandant into another spacious and high-ceilinged room that must not only her office, but Central's version of Command. An ornate desk, which is most likely the Commandant's, is situated in front of a window that overlooks the plaza, while a large conference table is smack dab in the middle of the room. Despite its purpose, and the all-black scheme — it must be a bitch to keep spotless — the place actually looks a bit cozy. On each side there are bookshelves, sofas, and various works of art; on the side opposite from Porus' desk, there's a set of pictures and awards placed on the wall.

"We aren't going to talk here. I just need to take care of something; it will only be few minutes," Porus says as she places my box of cookies on her desk. "So you are free to wander around this room. In case you need to go to the restroom, and also to wash your hands, take the first door to your right." With that, she heads into what looks like a kitchen — the smell of spices that briefly washes over me increases my pangs of hunger several-fold — leaving me to my own devices.

I don't know how many minutes pass. So I pass the time by relaxing on the couch, browsing through the book collection, looking at the different sculptures and paintings, taking a leak, looking out the window, attempting to ignore the unnerving stares from those dogs, and mulling over how Porus is practically treating me like a welcome guest in her home — even if her personality is on the chilly side — in contrast to earlier when she looked ready to kill me.

Suddenly it occurs to me that this _is_ her house in the strictest sense; the Commandant actually lives on this floor. Seriously, why else would there be a kitchen and a fully-stocked bathtub and shower in the restroom? Hell, perhaps she uses this main conference space as a living room. Even for mixing life and work, it all seems a tad… much.

_This coming from the guy who sleeps in a library._

_Oh… right… nevermind._

Since I haven't seen them closely yet, I decide to walk over to the pictures. In contrast to the Commandant's stony disposition, this spot is surprisingly sentimental. The picture in the very center is of a young boy giving a gap-toothed grin as he holds up a toddler; the latter doesn't exactly look too pleased to be held and is obviously trying to squirm out of his grasp. The more I look, the more it's clear that the pictures surrounding this one are of them as they grow up — paired vertical lines on the wall denote years passed as you get further from the center — with those of the girl being on the left and the boy on the right.

I decide to take a look at the girl's side first, taking in all of the activities she's doing: playing around with an apparently younger Beetee and Wiress, walking through a forest, tinkering about in a lab, having what looks disturbingly like tracker jackers flying around her… When I move to the boy's side, I find something distinctly familiar about him…

"… _me and my sis have lived here for over twelve years."_

Sure enough, not only do the later pictures make it pretty apparent who it is, but all the athletics trophies and various certificates are addressed to "Lucius Stone". Looking back at the awards issued to the girl — most of which happen to be science-related — I see that they are labeled "Lucia Stone", which confirms my following thought that she must be the sister he mentioned; someone wasn't exactly creative in the naming department.

_And if that's the case, then "Ma" must be…_

With mounting mortification, I take a brief look around at the room as everything falls into place.

_Oh, you got to be kidding me! Corpsman Happy-go-lucky is the son of Commander Hardass?_

Though something doesn't quite add up about Porus being their mother. If she's been here since at least the Second Quarter Quell, why would they be in the Capitol for some time? Not to mention that Lucius and Porus look nothing alike.

I file that away for later as I take a look at Lucius' photos: him being hoisted on someone's shoulders during a big group picture of the Guardians, Wiress giving him a stethoscope as a gift, him in his fatigues with a squad… Out of all the pics, there's only a couple where he doesn't look cheerful. In one, it's because he's standing at attention at what has to be his graduation ceremony. In the other, he has an expression of grim determination as he carries a bloodied and, from the looks of it, barely conscious kid across his shoulders; considering how recent the picture looks, I wonder if that's the incident Beetee was mentioning.

There's an article underneath the picture but, before I can read what it's about, I hear a throat being cleared behind me. I whip around to see Porus looking at me with an unreadable expression. Before I can stammer out an apology or something, she just beckons for me to follow her some more; the damn creepy dogs just trot alongside me. When we get to the elevator, I'm about to reach for my boots but am informed that they won't be needed where we're going.

As we move into the elevator, Porus finally states, "In case you're wondering: yes, I consider those two my children, and, no, I did not give birth to them. They are siblings, and we are related, though. In any case, if you want to know more, I'd rather them give the details of the whole thing."

"How did you know—"

"Considering how much Luce — bless his heart — likes to talk, and from the your expression while looking at the pictures, it makes sense that you not only put two and two together but also realized that something did not add up." She lays this out all matter-of-factly while pressing a button and giving me the same unreadable look as the elevator continues on up. "Like I said before: I don't take you for an idiot."

Now that I think about it… it almost looks like her expression holds a slight degree of… respect?

"Though if you're family, why did you two act so formally earlier?" I ask.

"Why wouldn't we? My son was on duty, and as… excitable as he may be, he knows how to separate his personal and professional life. Unless there are extenuating circumstances, to set aside standard protocol just for the sake of familial ties is nepotistic and sets a dangerous precedent."

After a short trip up, and when the elevator stops after going into another dark shaft, we finally disembark and I look around in wonder. It turns out that our destination is a lush rooftop garden. Except here, instead of arranged flowerbeds and potted trees, the garden has an almost wild and untamed nature to it. Colorful birds flit from tree to tree while luminescent fish swim around in a clear pond that circulates via a bubbling creek. I can also see why Porus instructed me to leave my shoes behind; there's no dirt up here, and the cool softness of the lawn — whatever it is, it's pretty fragrant when disturbed and definitely not grass — feels wonderful underneath my foot.

From the center of the garden, the only sign that we are actually on top of a skyscraper are the three massive spires. It turns out that the two smaller ones are not only where one exits out of the elevators — I assume the other side's usable as well — but are actually Chimeras looking out with their wings stretched straight upwards; unlike the main emblem, one of them — the one we exited out of — appears to be solely mechanical while the other's solely animalistic. I can't really tell what the big spire's supposed to be, or if it's supposed to be anything, but judging from the way there seems to be a subtle rippling effect radiating outwards from the tip, it appears that it's at the very center of the force field.

After allowing me to wander around and gawk like a little kid surrounded by cakes, Porus motions towards a table situated at the far end of the garden. I take a seat and, out of habit, reach my hand out over the edge. Nothing happens.

"If you wish, you're perfectly free to jump off this building," Porus states as she fiddles with something on the table.

_Was… was that a joke?_

I shake that thought out of my head and instead focus on the landscape below us.

Unlike the mostly urban part of Central that I've seen so far, at whole southern half of the citadel actually looks to be a mixture of wilderness and patches of farmland. Looking straight down, I realize that the aquatic environment I saw through the window earlier comes from a good-sized lake which flows into a much larger one that's azure with a dark blue center and looks to be ringed with a mixture of sandy beaches, rocky shoreline, docks, and swampland; it dimly registers that the larger lake must be a mini sea like during the Quell.

Even though there are no massive mountains like the ones surrounding the Capitol, the area past the circular wall and fortifications is no less beautiful to behold. Forest-covered rolling hills extend as far as I can see. In contrast to the lush greenery within the force field, autumn has already begun to turn the forest into a mosaic full of various hues of yellow, orange, red, and purple intermixing with the green. To top things off, the sun's already getting pretty low, casting a buttery light on everything and illuminating the edges of the clouds. Soon it will hit the horizon and paint the sky with a myriad of warm colors to contrast with the coolness of the approaching night.

I wish I had my painting supplies with me.

I'm jolted from my musings when the middle of the table irises out, leaving a gaping hole there. A few seconds later, a turntable laden with food lifts up and locks into place.

Still, I pause a bit when taking in the dishes provided; even after all the things I've tried in the Capitol, I haven't seen anything like this. Besides our eating implements, on the turntable is a bowl of rice, a basket full of various large leavened and unleavened flatbreads, fried pastries, a pitcher, condiments, and several bowls full of different fragrant stews. I'm also at a loss for words as Porus hands me my plate, glass, and napkin… but no silverware.

So as not to make a fool out of myself, I instead watch what my host is doing first: rinsing her hands in a little automatic fountain to the side before drying them off, ladling rice onto her plate followed by one of the stews, then finally ripping a piece off her flatbread to utilize as a one-use spoon. I decide to follow suit.

_Heh… if only Effie could see this._

After who-knows-how-many months of the tasteless gruel Thirteen calls "food", I find myself not being able to stop once I've started. It takes everything within me not to be like Katniss and groan ecstatically whenever I taste something new.

_Fuck yeah, flavor!_

I begin by ladling all three stews provided onto my rice. One has pieces of chicken in a thick creamy gravy that has hints of cashews, tomato, and butter; the next is cubes of lamb in a mildly spicy crimson sauce; the last is simply stewed greens with butter; all are laden with spices and extremely hearty. I keep alternating between the fluffy leavened flatbread or the thin unleavened cornbread; both have been liberally brushed with butter. Next are the pastries — each one stuffed with spiced potatoes, peas, and other veggies — which I eat with the various sauces provided. In between each dish, I often take a gulp of a sweet — with some spice that I can't put my finger on — frothy yogurt drink provided by the pitcher; not only is it refreshing, but helps keep the spices at a tolerable level. After trying everything once, I simply start picking dishes at random.

As I'm on my third round of the chicken stew, I feel something brush up against me, and I look down to see one of the dogs laying its head on my knee and looking back at me with the most plaintive expression.

"Don't."

Porus' admonishment stops me from reaching for a chunk of sauce-laden bread, and I look up to ask, "What?"

"Don't give them any food," she states. "It'll spoil them."

So, with a shrug, I settle for scratching it behind the ears. "Well, it's certainly an interesting mutt."

"Except they aren't. Other than a few behavioral modifications in their progenitors to make them receptive to domestication, those thylacines are not mutts."

I can hardly follow Porus' explanation besides those dogs — I don't care what she called them; they're dogs — not being mutts, so I just nod my head and continue to pet the dog as I eat.

In any case, it's not like there's anything left to give them. Before I know it, everything has been cleared out, with me admittedly taking the largest share. Once we load all the dirty dishes back onto the turntable, it drops down to what I assume is the kitchen. However, after we rinse our hands off, another takes its place. This time, there's a tea set and various small dishes of what I guess are snacks and dessert.

_The best part of dinner and not a moment too soon._

As I'm pouring myself a cup of tea, the sun has just hit the horizon and is now working its magic on the sky. I can't resist smiling as I see the bands of purple, magenta, and just that right shade of orange cast the clouds into deep contrast and juxtapose with the slowly-darkening mass of indigo overhead. Soon lanterns nearby turn on to keep us illuminated.

Like everything else, the rich tea's good but a bit different than what I'm used to; it's milky and already laden with sugar and spices such as cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and that same unknown spice from the yogurt drink. Also provided are various savory cookies to dip in it. The desserts are already placed in separate plates for us, thankfully with spoons. One dish seems to be a caramelized fried ball of dough soaked with sweet spiced syrup, while the other is some kind of rice pudding garnished with raisins and nuts; the latter especially helps in cleansing the palate of any spices from the main course.

"Out of curiosity, are these dishes a Two thing?" I ask as our empty dessert dishes are sent back down, leaving just the tea set on the table. When Porus gives me a questioning glance, I clarify my statement: "I don't recall any of this being served here, and I know Two has a similar flatbread." Two's bread is a bit smaller and more firm, yet it's still way closer than Three fried bit-sized pieces. Granted, we didn't have this kind of meal when in Two either, but I can't think of any other explanation.

"Observant, but not quite. These are dishes some of my ancestors possibly brought with them to pre-Cataclysm America. Though I wouldn't be surprised if such immigrants did influence Two's cuisine." I'm a bit surprised that such traditions survived intact, and my surprise must show since the Commandant gives a clarification of her own: "There are recipes recorded here."

"Well, in any case, this was excellent and delicious." I mean it; I'm freaking stuffed.

She gives me a slight nod. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_. You really didn't have to do this."

"Actually I did."

 _Huh?_ "What do you mean?"

"When you arrived here, it was clear that you were not in the best of shape. At the very least, you were obviously hungry. And there was no point in wasting my time with you if you're not functioning properly."

The idea of that makes me chuckle a bit, though that dies down when I see the cold expression on the Commandant's face.

"Is there something I said that you find amusing?"

 _Shitshitshit…_ "Not at all." When she looks unconvinced, I clarify: "It's just that in any debate, one would normally wants the other side to be in a weakened state for the sake of making things easier."

Porus sets her teacup down and fixes me with a withering glare. "Listen here, Mellark: this is not some little political debate where we need to convince a group of gullible lemmings for points or a vote; there are no sponsors here to impress. This is you attempting to convince me to make a big, and potentially risky, decision. I did not grant you an audience just for the sake of winning an argument out of pettiness. What benefit do I get from that? None at all."

"If that's the case, why did you react to Rebellion's earlier overtures with hostility?"

She snorts. "Because that buffoon and his lackeys not only kept coming at me with the same recycled drivel over and over again, but had the gall to do so with an insincere and arrogant demeanor. Now I'm giving you a chance to offer me something fresh. Something new.

"If it turns out that a point of yours is better for Central than the alternative, why should I not take it? To make a decision solely on pride is a pathetic and dangerous thing to do. So I trust you to lay everything out on the table so I can make a decision that is as informed as possible. And the only way you can lay everything out in the most coherent manner is if you're functioning at your fullest potential. So besides the fact that I would be a poor host to not offer my guest something, this meal was to bring you back up to capacity. Did it work by the way?"

"It… actually did." It's amazing how much a substantial and tasty meal can invigorate within a relatively short amount of time.

"In which case, let's get to the business at hand." She doesn't waste any time getting to the point. "So you want us to join the Rebellion." 

I decide to pour myself another cup of tea. I'm going to need all the energy I can get. "Yes."

"Why exactly do you want us to join your fight? Before you say anything, I'm not asking you to begin persuading just yet. Right now, just tell me the reason that you want Central on the side of Rebellion. Be honest."

She doesn't interrupt me as I explain the current situation of Rebellion, which is not too good. My view is that Central's active role on the side of the Rebellion would provide a much-needed boost to the fight and, at the same time, help in crippling the Capitol. There's the obvious reason in that weapons, supplies, and logistics would be provided to the Rebellion instead of the Capitol. However, there's also the fact that making Central's territory hostile to the Capitol would remove an important corridor and stopping point for Peacekeeper forces; conversely, it would provide a secure corridor for Rebellion forces. I do make it clear that I'm not asking for the Guardians to get directly involved in the fighting in an offensive manner; I understand that they are here to keep the place secure and that demanding that they participate undermines that.

Porus seem to wait for a couple minutes to make sure that I've had my say before remarking, "You are the first person to actually not demand that I directly risk my troops; I appreciate that. Same goes for your honesty about the state of the Rebellion. Now I'd like to say a few things:

"First, I think you are overstating our ability to give material support. Our production capabilities are just enough to equip the Corps, which in total is smaller than one Peacekeeper legion. _Maybe_  I can supply a couple platoons, but that assumes more trust than I have.

"More importantly, I'm responsible for the wellbeing of over ten thousand citizens in this community: military and civilian alike. By actively siding with a faction in full, I place all of them under significant risk; this is especially true should the faction I support loses. You said it yourself that the condition of the Rebellion leaves much to be desired. So how do we know that our presence would be enough to change things for the better?

"Because if we join you, and your side loses, it is clear that we will have succeeded in painting a big target on ourselves for the Capitol. There is no doubt that the workers here are indispensable; the same can't be said for their loved ones however. My Guardians don't even have that luxury; they and their families would no doubt be considered traitors to be executed or Avoxed.

"Of course you can be sure that we won't willingly hand ourselves over. However, what is everyone here to do: flee into the wilderness? Because while many of us do have survival skills, leading the whole community out is a highly-visible recipe for disaster. I wouldn't even put it past Snow to firebomb the entire forest if we escape. It doesn't help that District Three is surrounded by districts — exception being the Ouachita Waste to the south of us, and that is hostile territory — and we don't have enough aircraft to airlift the entire population in one short move. So unless we are willing to incur massive casualties in an exodus, the reality is that we are trapped. I and a select few would probably be able to make it out or hide, but I won't do that without the others.

"Armed resistance is also out of the question. Yes we have advanced defenses and well-trained troops, and in the current situation, weathering out the storm is an easy task. We're also extremely self-sufficient, as you can witness," she says as she gestures to the landscape below us, "and I make it obligatory for all citizens to stay in shape and learn at least basic survival and self-defense skills. However, the fact remains that, no matter how good the weaponry, defenses, and training, the Capitol's forces are numerically-superior. This also ties back into us being surrounded. Even if we are able to withstand a constant onslaught, there is the psychological health and morale of those under siege to be taken into account. In fact, my most liberal estimates of how long this place can function under constant siege before capitulating is around six months.

"So I need to have good reason, or two, if I'm to take this leap of faith."

So Porus' reason for her current stance is the safety of the citizens under her watch? Seems like a pretty solid and admirable argument from this angle. However, if I play this right, I think I can use it to my advantage.

"What about Wiress?"

I swear I see Porus' jaw clench at the mention of her name. _Good._ "What about her?"

"Wasn't she a citizen of your community?"

"Yes. Your point?"

"Well, you did say your citizens' protection is your utmost priority. Are you going to let her killer go unpunished?" I'm taking a big gamble with this statement, and I hate using the dead as pawns, but there's a chance that this argument may give me an opening.

"I do not appreciate you using her name to further your agenda, Mellark. Besides, her killer met his end. By the very hand of your district partner, I believe. It doesn't matter if we or others were the ones to take him down."

"I don't like invoking her anymore than you, but my point remains. And you know as well as me that Gloss was not the true guilty party in this. Who was the one who put her in that situation?"

"A situation that you helped start."

"Because our hands were forced." I lean back while taking a long sip. "We can do this all night."

When Porus doesn't say anything in return, I continue, "Even ignoring the injustice of the reaping, there's the little tidbit that the victors were supposed to be untouchable by the Games; the Quell changed that. If the victors are able to get reaped, what is to stop Snow from setting his sights on Central's children? Considering how much he likes unwavering loyalty, I am sure that you sitting on the fence is something he doesn't appreciate. Like you said yourself, he may not be able to touch your workers, but he can take their loved ones; hell, he just has to take a couple to make them live in fear like the rest of the districts. And I wouldn't be surprised if he considered the Guardians no longer needed."

"We'll fight back if that's the case."

I raise my eyebrows in turn. "Oh, then you'll fight? You said it yourself that a defensive war by Central can only last so long in the face of a 'numerically-superior' threat, especially if time has passed for Snow to rebuild his Peacekeepers and keep you from recruiting more Guardians. And with Rebellion presumably crushed, it's not like you are going have anybody stand by to help you. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if those in the districts resent your neutrality enough to actually help the Capitol.

"And speaking about unwavering loyalty…" I pause a bit just to assure myself this is a good idea. On one hand, Porus may appreciate my candor and understand what's at stake. On the other, giving her the idea of distrust within the Rebellion… "I'd like you to know I speak for the Rebellion, not District Thirteen. Still, there's little doubt President Coin's poised to replace Snow; from what I've seen, she is also the type of person who likes nothing more than unquestioning loyalty. If that's the case, I am sure that she will view Central with extreme suspicion considering if you rely purely on this community's indispensability to stay relevant. While the amnesty will probably stay in place, I wouldn't be surprised if this place becomes fairly uncomfortable. This isn't a threat but merely a warning.

"Look, I get that you didn't want to risk your people by getting involved, even after the last reaping. And of course I can't guarantee Central's safety should you choose to join us. However, I don't see how staying neutral will end well with the current options, and I trust _you_ to be pragmatic enough to realize that hoping for a third option is probably the ultimate risk. 

"And even if you can't equip the rebels with a bunch of cutting-edge weaponry, turning your community into hostile territory for the Capitol can still make a lot of difference," I point out in the hopes of showing my willingness to negotiate. "The most important thing of all is that I know you have no love for the Capitol, whereas a victorious Rebellion could be quite rewarding."

As I finish talking, I can't tell if my spiel has a positive or negative impression on Porus. All she asks is, "Is there anything else you wish to add?"

"Actually there's one last point I'd like to make. Though I think it's something more for the provost."

"Humor me."

"Well, my point is this: why settle for less?" I make sure to gesticulate dramatically with that question.

It actually causes the Commandant to lift an eyebrow. "Settle for less?"

"Think of all the potentials your advancements could have on greater society," I explain. "And with each advancement society makes, you get a more advanced generation to contribute the best minds to this place, which helps develop more advancements and so on.

"But what do Central's advancements get used for? To make the cozy lives of the Capitol citizens even cozier and next Games flashier than the previous one. Makeup and entertainment. That's just the ones that are actually picked. What about the useful advancements that fall by the wayside because of Capitol priorities? If I didn't know any better, I would bet that folks here in Central are a bit resentful about that."

I don't expect for Porus to say anything, but she actually mutters, "You have no idea…"

"Well, I like to think that in a free society, there's a way better chance for this place to contribute its full potential to society."

_Now I'm done. Just as well; I think we ran out of tea._

Porus seems to sense the finality of my statement as she sends the tea set back. "Well, you have definitely given me a lot to think about. And not only were my predictions of you bringing in a new voice justified, but I also do appreciate your honest candor.

"However, like I said earlier, this is not a decision for me to make lightly. I have to not only think on things, but also consult others for their thoughts as well as to plan for contingencies. It is something that could take days," she finishes while looking at me with a pointed expression as if daring me to demand her to rush the proceedings.

"That is perfectly acceptable." Though it cuts things a bit close with the end of the ceasefire drawing near.

"I knew that you'd be agreeable. If you wish, you and your companions are free to stay here for the duration. In fact, I'd rather you stay as I may wish to ask you further questions down the road."

"Works for me. I'll have to ask the others though."

"Understood."

As we head back to the elevator, I take one more look to the west to see the last traces of magenta fading away. _Yep, definitely done in good time._

We stop at Porus' floor to put our coats and shoes on before heading the rest of the way. As the elevator begins its descent, I remember one of Lucius' offers. "Though if I do stay—"

"Yes, regardless of my decision, you have permission to get a new prosthetic leg in the meantime. Considering Medical's desire for a test subject, there's no need to worry about this being a drain of resources on this community."

Before I can ask how she already knows about that, Porus simply explains, "Ever since he found out that you were coming here, my son has been yammering about how we needed to get you a new prosthesis. He has been doing those past few days." She begins rubbing her temples. "Nonstop."

I'm barely able to resist chuckling at the idea of the Commandant being nagged to the ends of the earth by that guy.

When we finally reach the ground floor, and the doors to the elevator open, we are greeted with a shrill Capitol voice. "Porus! What the hell do you — is that who I think it is?"

I think I actually hear the Commandant give an irritated sigh, though she immediately speaks in her usual professional and dispassionate tone. "Ah, Ms. Sunsilver, I was just having a nice dinner with Mr. Mellark here. Mellark, this is Poppæa Sunsilver, attaché to the Capitol."

The woman has even more makeup caked on her bony face than I ever remember Effie having. Little feathers are attached at the end of her wig's locks, and the dress she's wearing appears to be covered in chartreuse down; this plus the talon-like nails she has makes her look like a newly-hatched chick that fell in a vat of dyes. I bet the mutts stay clear of her out of fear of accidentally choking or poisoning themselves on something.

Despite suspecting that this is a person I don't want to get to know more — hell, the dogs next to me are actually growling a bit — I incline my head to her. "Evening, ma'am."

The Capitolite ignores me and continues to yell — screech is more like it; her eyes are practically bugging out of her head — at Porus. "So you not only receive rebels and allow them to run freely around the place, but also dine with their representative? I should report you to the Capitol!"

"I doubt that's necessary."

"Unless you arrest this traitor and his cronies, I find it very necessary." This time, I give a snort of laughter over this dizzy bint referring to guys like Gale and Haymitch as my cronies. She glares at me before saying smugly, "It is about time this madhouse either show some gratitude to its benefactor or has a change in management."

To her credit, Porus manages to stay unruffled, though her voice seems to be gaining a harder edge. "Last I checked, we are currently under a ceasefire. Also they are our gues—"

"Nobody cares about your stupid antiquated ideas of hospitality!" Sunsilver snaps as she whips out a small pistol and fires it into my chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have a little too much fun going overboard on the description porn in this chapter? Probably. Am I sorry? Nope.
> 
> Without Greasy Sae there to work her magic, I imagine the food in Thirteen to be like the rest of the district: bland and soulless so as to just keep you functional.
> 
> Two's district bread is essentially a pita, while Three's are smaller frybread.


	19. Decision

With the muzzle flash, and the following sharp report, I manage to get introduced to a little fact of life… or death, I guess:

Being shot sucks.

I mean, of course it's a given considering all the puncturing and dying that a high-velocity projectile tends to bring. However I never truly appreciated the magnitude of suckiness until now.

Yes, the gun that's used is probably a peashooter, and yes, my coat's armored. Not to mention that this doesn't quite compare to being skewered in the leg, with said leg becoming infected for a while before a big nasty mutt decides to clamp down on it.

It still sucks.

I feel as if I'm punched and actually stumble back a bit into the wall behind me. Fortunately it appears that Beetee was correct in his claims that the coat would be capable of stopping a bullet from entering me; at least, it doesn't feel as if anything has entered me. Unfortunately, he's also correct in that it would still hurt like hell; because, moments later, extreme pain blossoms in my chest with the first breath I take and just keeps on going.

However, as I slowly slide down the wall to land in a crumpled heap, I'm still of clear enough mind to observe a second fact of life:

There are a few things in this world that are universally considered to be a really bad idea.

Such things include climbing an electric fence while it's still buzzing, picking wild fruit with no prior foraging experience, messing around with a tracker jacker nest, and hiring a child molester to babysit. Stuff like that.

Oh yeah, and insulting a host in their own home while breaking said host's ground rules; doubly so if that host is armed. Really, really bad idea.

Sunsilver's smug expression of triumph is replaced with an agonized scream as her hand is sliced off by a sword-wielding Porus. I'm frankly at a loss for how the Commandant's able to move so swiftly. One moment, she's at my side; the next, she's a couple meters away and holding the tip of her sword at the throat of the gibbering Capitol official who's currently backed-up against a pillar. Judging from the strange shape of that sword — it's obviously a double-edged straight sword, but instead of tapering to a sharp tip like most, this one gradually broadens from the hilt before terminating abruptly at a blunt end; it makes the blade look more rectangular than anything sword-like — being stabbed in the neck with that would probably be even more painful than with a regular one. During all this time, the Commandant's expression doesn't change.

She casually tilts her head towards me and, with the same calm air, asks, "Are you alright, Mellark?"

"I'll live…" I manage to painfully gasp out.

"My son and your companions should be here very soon. In the meantime, if you can, I suggest removing that coat to make things go a lot smoother."

I try but it turns out that moving my left arm sends a whole new wave of pain accompanied by a slight bout of nausea. I can't even push away the dogs that are currently licking at my face. So I the best I can do is to carefully unbutton it, and undo the belt one-handed, before shimmying my right arm out of the sleeve. During this time, I look at Porus and appreciate just how scary that woman can be.

Her expression may otherwise be fairly tranquil and impassive, but those eyes… Reflected in those fathomless eyes is pure distilled fury, and not an ounce of remorse.

As she lectures Sunsilver, Porus' tone remains even and dispassionate, yet each syllable is laden with enough venom to even make me cringe back a bit. "'Antiquated', huh? I'm not surprised that you think in such a manner; lackeys of the Capitol have always viewed us with amused contempt at best. Well, do you know that this 'antiquated' custom was the only thing protecting your useless hide? Because, ever since you got here, you have been a barely-tolerable presence to—"

Sunsilver sobs, "I'm sorry! I ju—"

"Don't. Interrupt. Me." To accentuate her statement, Porus presses her sword against the Capitolite's throat. "How typical. You act all superior before and up to the point of shooting a boy who has wronged you in no manner at all. But when the chips are down and you find yourself against someone more powerful, you mewl for mercy like the sniveling coward that you are.

"Well, I would like to key you in on a little fact: I. Am. Not. Merciful," she growls before looking towards a couple apprehensive Guardians standing by. "Travis. Weston. Take this woman over to the clinic; then confine her in the brig."

"Yes, Commander." Both of them are actually smirking a bit as they escort the bleeding official out of the hall.

Once they depart, the Commandant calmly wipes off her sword with a cloth before sheathing it and sighing, "Damn age is catching up to me."

"Looked impressive from here," I quip despite the pain. What the hell was Porus like when she was younger? I'd bet that even now, and even with her diminutive size, she'd be able to take down guys like Cato or Brutus without breaking a sweat.

"It would have been more impressive if I got there before that idiot fired off a shot."

"Spilt milk."

"You seem to be taking this all in stride."

That elicits a laugh from me, which I regret immediately with a wince. "Ow… If you remember, I've dealt with far worse."

"True." I swear that I actually see a ghost of a smile appear on her face. That quickly vanishes as several Guardians, plus Mayor Charlton, stride grimly over. The Guardian in the lead looks a bit older than the rest; also, instead of fatigues, he's dressed in a suit-like uniform with slacks and a coat like Porus'.

After going through the greeting protocol and assurances that everything's taken care of, Porus says to me, "Mellark, meet my senior adviser, Sergeant Major Trajan Santos."

Due to my current state, all I do is give Santos a smile and a small wave, which he returns with a slight nod. He then turns back to Porus, "Commander, I have some urgent news."

"Need me to leave?" I ask, even though the only way I'm getting out of here is if someone helps me.

"Actually, Mr. Mellark, I'd rather you stay. This partly concerns your group."

A wave of dread settles over me, but I resist the temptation to press the guy for questions. In any case, he begins to summarize exactly what happened.

"There was an incident in the hangar. A contingent of disgruntled Peacekeepers moved to confront the District Thirteen soldiers."

_Ah, dammit…_

Thing is, I'm a bit unsurprised. As we were being escorted out of the hanger, I remember a group of Peacekeepers giving us really nasty looks. However, I ignored them assuming that they would at least honor the ceasefire, if not Central's ground rules. Seems that I was wrong.

Anxiety builds — I really hope no one got hurt — as the sergeant continues on: "Our men attempted to intervene; however, the moment they got there, things escalated and the Peacekeepers opened fire." He gives a long exhale. "Fortunately, we were able to pacify the situation without too many people getting hurt."

"Casualties?" Porus asks stonily.

"Nothing life-threatening." I breathe a small sigh of relief at the news. "One of the soldiers from District Thirteen was grazed in the side, and another got hit in the shoulder. Some minor burns for the Peacekeepers as well as probable auditory damage. As for our forces: one mild concussion, a couple wounded arms, one wounded leg, and some bruised ribs. So, by not counting minor bruises and scrapes, that would make four Guardians injured."

The Commandant clenches her jaw a couple more times at that last bit. "Did the District Thirteen soldiers partake in the fight or directly contribute to the escalation leading up to it?" I freeze at that question. If our guys did so, then we are possibly in deep shit.

Fortunately, Santos shakes his head. "Both eyewitness accounts and surveillance footage refute that idea. No weapons were discharged from the side of District Thirteen. In fact, Commander Boggs immediately ordered his soldiers back into their hovercraft. It was at this point that the Peacekeepers started firing.

"It's also probably pertinent to mention that not all of the Peacekeepers were involved in the altercation. Besides the pilots, several stayed back and a couple even tried to dissuade their companions from the confrontation; all of them are still currently detained. Also, I've just been informed that while the Peacekeepers already held animosity towards the rebels, it was apparently Ms. Sunsilver who encouraged them to attack. Intelligence is currently cross-examining her for further details.

"So, that's what we have so far. How would you like us to proceed?"

Porus only seems to think for barely a minute before she answers: "Those Peacekeepers who were non-aggressors are to be released. However, they and their hovercraft are also to be completely disarmed, and their departure shall be postponed till I say so. As for the rest…" She turns to the Mayor. "Jon, is there anything important happening tomorrow?"

Charlton shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of."

"In which case, send a message out. At noon, we'll be having a broadcast from the Glade. I trust you to have everything prepared by then."

"Of course," he murmurs, before briskly walking away while barking orders into his communicator. Before he left however, I think I saw a wide smirk appear on the mayor's face along with a slight glint in his eyes. Actually, other than Santos and Porus, everybody else present looks positively giddy with delight. It's a bit disturbing.

Porus proceed to state to Santos, "Of course you know the protocol. In this case, the statements and any item of importance from the condemned can be taken with their hovercraft on its way back to Two. If that's all, then you're dismissed."

As the sergeant heads out, my group barges in. Looks like they used a bit of the time to change as Gale's in his usual Thirteen get-up, and Lucius is wearing jeans and a t-shirt; however, the latter still has his medical kit and hat on. Also judging from how unsteady Haymitch is on his feet, it also looks like my mentor finally got his hands on some booze. I guess they didn't hear the details about what happened to me, because upon seeing my slumped form, the guys practically flip shit and rush over.

Within an instant, Lucius is at my side and gently shooing the dogs away as he rummages around in his pack. "Krysos, Agyros: please give the guy some room. Ma, we came here as soon when we heard about the incident in the hanger. What happened here?"

"Ms. Sunsilver, in her infinite wisdom, thought it would have been a smart idea to attack our guest here. From the looks of it, the bullet hit him on the chest, near his left shoulder."

"HE GOT SHOT?" Haymitch roars incredulously with a mixture of horror and rage written on his face. Gale also looks ready to go berserk. Beetee… is concerned, and that's about it.

"I believe that I made myself clear the first time," Porus says with a twinge of irritation. "In any case, she's going to receive the punitive measures for her transgressions."

"Never did like her," Lucius mutters as begins working on me with the same look of determination that I saw in the picture earlier. Before I know it, my coat's completely off — how he managed to remove the thing without causing me more pain than usual, I have no clue — and the shirt's cut away. The guy's working so quickly and smoothly — all the while, somehow keeping conversational — that I can hardly follow what's happening as he begins examining me. Already, a nasty hexagonal splotch of dark reddish-purple has formed on my skin.

While Haymitch settles for sitting with Beetee to watch me from a couch, Gale gets increasingly fidgety. One moment's he's at my side; the next, he's pacing back and forth; then he's looking over Lucius' shoulder. At one point, the Corpsman finally says in a calm tone, "Gale, I know that you're concerned, but you ain't making things easier by hovering over me."

That doesn't seem to do anything to ease the hunter's disposition. The final straw comes when I involuntarily let out a hiss of pain from Lucius checking my ribs to figure out the damage. Before I can say anything, Gale is lifting him up by his shirt and pressing him against a wall.

"Why the hell aren't you giving him any painkillers?" Gale seethes.

I'm in no shape to yell at him to stand down, so I settle for groaning in frustration.

_Dammit Gale… Are you trying to get us all in trouble?_

However, to my surprise, Porus has no sign that she's angry or concerned with the current turn of events other than continued irritation. Looking back at the pair of guys next to me, I notice that Lucius is also unfazed. He must have things under control, though it doesn't look like it.

"Right now, Peeta's in a stable non-life-threatening condition," he explains softly, as if Gale's a scared child instead of someone who could beat him to a pulp. "I need to see the extent of his injuries so I can make a proper treatment that allows him to heal completely."

"Look at him!" Gale shouts as he points towards me. "It's pretty obvious what his injuries are."

"Gale, calm down, you ain't doing him any favors by losing your head."

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down! Peeta wouldn't be in this mess if we were there." The hunter is actually getting more hysterical by the minute. "Peeta's not supposed to get shot. He's not a fighter. He's supposed to be the guy who manages to avoid conflict whatsoever. He… He…"

The whole time, Lucius still maintains the same calming tone in his voice. "Gale…"

"And now you're causing him more pain!" For some reason, Gale's speech is starting to slur. Probably drunk. "What the hell kind of medic are you?"

"Gale."

"What?"

"Take a nap."

He gives a bleary scowl. "I'm not tired."

"That ain't a suggestion."

Before Gale can retort, his face slackens and eyes roll to the back of his head as he loses consciousness. Lucius quickly catches his now-limp body before it can fall to the floor; he proceeds to half-carry-half-drag the hunter towards a nearby chair and gently lowers him down into it.

The event that just unfolded causes Haymitch to sit up and send a glare over. "The hell you just do to Hawthorne?"

The Corpsman just holds up a pen-like injector in his hand.  _How did he jab Gale without being noticed?_  "You going to be difficult as well, Mr. Abernathy?"

Fortunately, my mentor just leans back into the couch. "Nah… I'm just curious in case I need to shut down certain uppity kids."  _Thanks Haymitch…_

I look at Gale's slumped figure. I have never seen the guy have a meltdown like that.

As if sensing an unanswered question, Lucius smiles at me and says, "Gale's going to be fine. He's just worried and needs some time to cool off. Now let's get you fixed up."

Without any further distractions, he finishes up his examination and begins patching me up. Besides the obvious external bruising, I apparently have several bruised ribs; fortunately, there's nothing more than that. He quickly puts a cold pack on and explains that I'll have to wear my left arm in a sling, which he'll provide later on, for a short while to prevent further straining. Finally, he injects me with something that banishes the pain away with wonderful fuzziness. I embrace the fuzzy.

Once Lucius has finished working on me — I'm even given a small piece of candy in the end — Porus gives me an expression that shows she's made a decision:

"It seems as if the Capitol is intentionally attempting to force my hand. So, congratulations Mellark; I believe that you have yourself an alliance."

I give her a weak grin and thumbs-up before I'm overtaken by blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

***The Capitol: Five Hours Later***

That was a wonderfully productive morning: fresh air, serene setting, watching that idealistic fool squirm and go through an existential crisis…

Who knew the boy was capable of so much venom? Not him, it seems.

Really, short of crushing this little district rebellion, I couldn't ask for more.

I'm about to call it a night when I get a call from Central of all places. Maybe they finally decided to get off their high horse and join the fight.

"Ah, Roxana, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Seeing her grit her teeth at my usage of her former name is quite satisfying. To this day, I'm conflicted as to whether allowing that woman to continue as Head Peacekeeper of Central was a good idea. On one hand, her father was instrumental in my rise to power. Not to mention that Central under her oversight has been content to ignore talks of rebelling. Also, it was a generally a poor idea to contradict my predecessor on any of her decisions, even after she had left power; quite frustrating that it took Agrippa so long to pass.

Still, I don't think any of us anticipated Roxana making the community so independent. It was merely due to their increased innovation and productivity — not to mention their low-key nature and playing by the rules during reapings and Tours — that I was willing to look the other way as she kept recruiting for her unrecognizable security force; I even allowed her youth program to stay in place and concede to having those of age in Central be exempt from reapings. However, her refusal to commit her troops to this fight has been the final straw.

Well, if she is coming to offer her support, it's too little too late. After this conflict has run its course, I'm cutting off her supply of potential recruits for her precious Guardian Corps and will gradually phase them out in favor of proper Peacekeepers. I may even consider tweaking the age groups a bit so as to have both of her "children" in the next Games. I could have them continuously chased by stinging flies until they die; a fitting punishment for a community of fence-sitters.

As usual, the "Commandant" isn't much for pleasantries besides established protocol. "Spare me your false affability, Mr. President. Several of your Peacekeepers, as well that idiot of an attaché, committed a severe breach of hospitality by firing their guns without provocation. Several of my men were injured in the process."

"Well, that's unfortunate." It really is. The one thing I can respect about the system she installed in Central is the upheld and strengthened principle of hospitality. Such things ensure even the most unruly individuals know to toe the line. "Well, if you wish to take any disciplinary action, I won't stop you."

"How magnanimous of you."  _My, someone's feeling fairly snarky._  "However, that is not why I called. I've decided that Central will no longer be a neutral party in this conflict."

I allow myself a wide smile.  _Finally. Still, you're too late to prevent the fallout after this._  "You have no idea how pleased this makes me. I'll be sending a couple military advi—"

"Who said anything about us fighting on your side?"

 _Wait…_ "What?" I growl as I push myself up to lean towards the projection.

"Did I not make myself clear the first time? Very well then, allow me to reiterate: We are joining the Rebellion. Is that clear enough?"

"What in the world compelled you do such a thing?"

"Let's just say that I currently don't have that much confidence in the rebels finishing you off on their own."

 _She was already preparing for my downfall?_  When I don't say anything, she adds, "Try not to take things personally. I just don't trust you to treat Central with any sort of dignity in the possible event of your victory."

_So she has a general idea of what my plans are. I never took the woman to be a fool, but why now all of the sudden? Why…_

The realization hits me like a slap in the face.

_Mellark._

_That conniving son of a bitch!_  He must have used the ceasefire as an easy way to sneak into District Three and convince the Commandant to have a change in tactics. Those rebels are also probably why those Peacekeepers and my official broke protocol, which likely solidified the Commandant's decision. And there's nothing I can do at this moment without going back on my word about the ceasefire agreement.

Little bastard played me this entire time.

A little blinking light signifies that I have an incoming call, but I ignore it.

However, the Commandant seems to have noticed me looking at the alert. "You probably want to get that."

I finally answer the comm. "Make it fast," I bark, "I'm busy."

Ferrier stammers, "Sorry sir, but I think you need to see this."

A map of the nation is bought up. In bright yellow, the communications network sprawls across the area. At this point, they are not only integral for overseeing loyalist and Peacekeeper operations; they are how we are able to monitor everything that happens in the districts.

That's when I notice the problem: the vast majority of the network is flickering instead of being stable as it should be. To my horror, District Three goes completely dark.

"Explain, Mr. Ferrier," I grit out while attempting to maintain my composure. "Why is this happening?"

"I don't know! We been trying to maintain control but—"

"Ferrier?"

"Y-yes sir?"

"You're fired."  _And in line to be an Avox for the rest of your miserable and incompetent life._

Districts Six, Seven, Eight, and Nine are gone now.

I put the Commandant, who still has that infuriatingly impassive expression on her face, back on line. "What have you done?"

"Something I should have done in the very beginning. You forget who developed and installed the majority of your communications systems, as well as your precious surveillance devices."

"You know that you and your family will be some of the first ones I take care of when this over," I hiss.

She just snorts. "I seriously doubt that. And I dare you to throw your white-clad lackeys at us. We'll be prepared to receive them."

Now it's Five, Ten, and Eleven.

"You should have never reaped my friends." This time, her voice is laden with spite as she glares at me.

The traditional Career districts are the last to go.

In the end, the only places, other than the Capitol, that still have operational communications are the mountain complex in Two and the MOB in Twelve. It is fortunate that I decided to overhaul the Capitol's and Two's systems in the past couple years without Central's assistance. However, due to the relatively hasty way the line to Twelve has been set up, even that connection is unstable.

Of course the stony bitch has to get the final word in before she closes off her line. "Goodbye, Mr. President. This will be the last time we speak."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the story? If you're having trouble convincing somebody to accept your proposal, get yourself shot. That will get them on your side.


	20. Breakfast Bond

I actually wake within a reasonable amount of time; helps that there's no dream-Cato to pester me with enigmatic statements or Haymitch giving me an improvised wake-up call. Also, I'm no longer in the lobby but a nice comfy bed in a darkened bedroom. Despite the wonderful plushiness of the setting I'm in— not to mention that it's apparently not yet five in the morning — I'm refreshed enough to get on with my day.

As I get up, I notice a couple things. First off, I've been stripped down to my skivvies. In all honesty, a history being stripped down, helping strip others down more than a few times, and stripping down in locker rooms means that I'm desensitized to the point of little chagrin. If anything, I'm a bit thankful that I didn't have to sleep in those trousers; they're comfortable enough during the day, but not in bed. At least they didn't go further than that.

Secondly, judging from the vantage point offered by a glance out the window, I'm still in the Tower.

More importantly, however, I'm actually able to move now. It seems that Luce — _yeah, I think I can go with 'Luce' from now on_ — did an excellent job in fixing me up. It still hurts a quite a bit to breathe or move my left arm and torso, but the point is that I'm not in such agonizing pain to the point of being crippled.

On a table next to me is an arm sling and a container of medication, plus handwritten note — a fairly illegible one at that; I have to read the damn thing several times to get the gist of its message — by the corpsman telling me instructions for the medication along with some breathing exercises to help me heal; for some reason, there's also a suggestion to dress casually today. Also nearby is all my gear, including stuff that I originally left on the hovercraft, as well as a small set of some extra articles of clothing that I have no recollection of owning but am in possession of.

After a nice long shower — it's good to clean myself in a non-communal setting that doesn't ration the water; admittedly one thing I missed from the Capitol — I get dressed… somewhat. I don't want to go through the pain of putting on a shirt right now so, for now, I just settle on one of the short pants provided plus the sling. 

The sound of a slight commotion outside alerts me to the fact that I'm not the only one up this early, and I exit the bedroom to enter into a large high-ceiling room — high enough to accommodate two floors judging by the stairway on my side and opposite from me — that I assume is a common area, with several couches and recliners that face the window. 

Also, there's a delectable scent of food that permeates the air, and it only takes me a few seconds to find the source of it and the earlier commotion: smack-dab in the middle of the common area is a good-sized kitchen that's currently being occupied. As I walk towards it, I send a greeting towards Gale, who's puttering around moodily in nothing but a pair of pajama pants.

He doesn't bother looking up to grunt, "Morning, Mellark…"

Gale's greeting earns a dry chuckle of amusement from me as I plop down on a stool by the counter. "Ah, so we're back to 'Mellark' now?" I really don't care either way, but I know what I heard last night.

He pauses to send me a surly scowl before resuming his work. Strewn across the counter is a selection of various fresh food items… a very large selection. Seeing all of the pans and pots on the stove, it seems to me that Gale's trying to be a one-man banquet kitchen. Every now and then, he would stop to glance at a screen — likely recipes — mutter to himself a bit, and then continue on with his culinary endeavors.

_Who knew the guy could cook?_

Then it occurs to me that he _has_ to know how to cook; it makes little sense to leave all of the work to Hazelle when there are so many mouths to feed. This is likely the first time he's able enjoy a full-scale hearty meal. The Hawthornes are probably used to either eking-by on very small portions of basically-prepared wild game, tesserae, traded food, or Hob fare — actually had some of Sae's stew a couple times during my bread runs to the Seam; it's not bad — in Twelve or subsisting on the… whatever they call it in Thirteen. So now that he has got a hold of some fresh ingredients, he's pulling out all the stops.

Though that makes me wonder how he got his hands on all of this.

"Want an omelet?"

"Huh?" Gale's question shakes me from my thoughts.

"I'm asking if you want an omelet. I'm about to make one for myself right now."

"Uh, sure… Thanks."

I want to see what Gale's capable of, so I just leave it up to him when asked for preferences. He just nods at that in the process of taking apart a couple mushrooms — at least, he says they are mushrooms; one looks a bit like an oversized squashed pinecone, while the other is a white ball covered in rubbery-looking spines — to sauté in butter with garlic, shallots, and herbs. When he's satisfied with them, the hunter puts a good number of eggs into a bowl to mix together with some more spices, greens, and a dash of milk.

Gale slides the milk bottle and an empty glass towards me in an offering manner, which I accept. As I take a drink, I notice that it's much thicker and richer than what I'm used to; even in the Capitol. Not necessarily a bad thing; just different, which is confirmed when he notes it's buffalo milk.

_Is it just me or are you trying to cram as much fat into your recipes as possible?_

"While you wait, you can snack on these," Gale says as he slides a basket full of fruit towards me. Upon seeing the orange plum-sized berries — each with a four-petal rosette on top — I instantly recognize what they are. That recognition causes me glare back at him with eyes narrowed in suspicion.

_Thought you could fool the townie, huh? You give me these in a gesture of "generosity" and then laugh as my mouth turns to chalk. Well, I'm already familiar with this game._

Gale does laugh upon seeing my expression. I actually think this is the first time I've heard him give a laugh that's good-natured instead of uneasy. "You've never had a ripe persimmon, have you? Don't worry; these are fine."

When I still make no move towards them, he, with an impatient huff, simply grabs a fruit, pulls the rosette off, and pops the whole thing in his mouth. After unceremoniously spitting the seeds out into a bowl, he turns back to me. "See?"

The hunter's either correct in his statement or he's being a very convincing liar. Since he still has a ways to go in the charisma department, I decide to go with the former and try one. Next thing I know, I'm grabbing several. While the rind is still a bit tough, the inside has an almost jelly-like consistency and is full of rich sweetness.

"There are several stands of trees back in Twelve that I have memorized," Gale says. "They're one of the few things reliable enough to give a yearly bountiful harvest come the season, and my family always looked forward to that. So, whenever I brought a bag-full back, we made sure to turn them into jam to last the winter and much of spring."

If I had known that they would have actually ripened into something actually tasty, we would have probably done the same thing. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Dad did do that and I just never realized it due to forever equating "persimmon" with "mouth-cotton". I'm about reach for another handful, but Gale swiftly lifts the basket out of reach. "Don't spoil your appetite."

I scowl a bit at him but agree to wait.

"I take it that you guys went shopping yesterday," I note. 

Gale's too busy working on the eggs to look back, but he still responds: "Yeah, since Beetee told me that we may be staying here a while, groceries were needed. The market was beginning to run out of a lot of the good stuff, but we managed." _I can see that._

"I meant the clothes."  _It's doubtful Thirteen supplies duck-printed pajamas._

"That too. A bit nice to not rely on Thirteen jumpsuits for once." Finally, he glances back to ask, "Do those pants fit? I tried to estimate the best I could."

"They fit quite well. Thank you." I can only say that after more than a few moments of speechless shock. Not just due to Gale being able to accurately deduce my size and preferred style by sight, but that he got clothes for me at all. "I honestly thought someone must have got the size from my pants and shirt after Luce patched me up." 

That last part causes Gale to grumble and attack the mushrooms with renewed vigor.

His fuming earns a chortle from me: "You're not still mad about that, are you?"

"He knocked me out."

"You weren't exactly acting rationally at the time." When he sends a withering glare back at me, I hold my hands up in placation. "Well, you weren't. And in the end, he did seem to succeed in fixing me."

Some time passes before he lets out a long huff while ladling the mushrooms onto the eggs, followed by a sprinkling of grated cheese. "I guess so. Whole thing still took me by surprise."

"You're not the only one," I mutter. "Say, how were you able to pay for all of this?"

Gale's about to respond when he's interrupted by a young girl, who has a pack slung over her shoulders, walking into the room. "Mr. Hawthorne?"

"Right on time. Wait a moment." He deftly folds the omelets and places each on a plate before washing his hands and walking over to inspect the contents of the pack. After Gale nods, the girl shows him a tablet with some device attached, which he runs his thumb over. Though before the girl departs, he gives her a handful of persimmons; likely as a tip or something. It seems that she either recognizes them as ripe or hasn't had somebody play that prank on her yet, because she gives a wide grin before running off. I walk over to see the contents of the pack; inside are a dozen massive biscuits, with heat still radiating off of them.

"We stopped by the bakery," Gale explains. "Stone told me that, since I was planning on making breakfast, I should get some fresh biscuits. So I pre-ordered a few to be delivered first thing in the morning. Hope you don't mind not being the one to make them."

"Don't worry; though they better be good. What was that thing you just did?" I mime the motion he did with his thumb.

"It's how you pay here. Since it's such a small and stable community, Central's able to set up a system that's completely electronic. They even have their own internal currency. So instead of handing over cash or using a signature, you use your thumbprint." I'm about to ask where he got the money, but he beats me to the punch. "Beetee hooked me up to his account." By the way the hunter notes that, I can tell he's trying to figure out a way to pay back the old victor.

"Huh, I would have thought that the Capitol had frozen his account."

"Funny story: they tried. However, he had his earnings converted into Central currency. So when the Capitol came by, there was nothing to grab except for a small amount, and Beetee's Central account was folded into the community's coffers. When he came back, they simply created a new account and restored things."

After that explanation, he motions me to grab one of the plates. He also gestures towards the stove; on there are pots full of gravy and corned-beef hash. I get a hefty portion of each — ignoring Gale's offers to hold the plate in the process — as well as a biscuit, before sitting back down and digging in.

To say that this exceeds my expectations is a severe understatement.

Buffalo milk suits the gravy well by carrying an unbelievable richness with undertones of spice given by the sausage. Mixing it with the simple-yet-hearty hash goes especially well with the biscuit, which has an soft and moist interior shielded by just about the right amount of crunchiness on the outside; I wonder if this is the same bakery that made the flatbread I had yesterday evening. However, the omelet is the star of this show. The fluffy, crêpe-like wrapping of eggs and spinach balances well with the thick cheese-and-mushroom filling inside; the mushrooms themselves give off both a wonderfully nutty flavor and meaty texture.

I manage to pause eating long enough to express my compliments and gratitude towards Gale, who naturally brushes it off.

"Although I couldn't believe my luck when I saw both a hen-in-the-woods _and_ a bearded tooth for sale." _Ah, so that's what those mushrooms are called._ I notice that his face suddenly grows a bit wistful. "I've only got to try each of those once after a trip with my pa. Ever since then, I usually took any I found to the mayor as he would always pay the best price for them; mushrooms are worth more as a trade item than as food for those in the Seam."

Before things start getting really depressing, I decide to change the topic. "So what do you think of Central?"

Gale looks thoughtful about what I'd consider to be a straightforward question. "It's interesting. I was hesitant of how we would be received — and a bit resentful about them keeping neutral throughout the fight — but the folk here are welcoming and friendly. The closest thing I could see to a 'divide' is a bit of good-natured interdepartmental rivalry. Hell, if I lived here, I'd probably join the Corps. Not to mention the tech and weaponry they develop…" he muses before shrugging. "Plus, they actually allow hunting and foraging past the wall, which is where a lot of this stuff came from. All you have to do to get a permit is show that you have survival skills and allow inspection of whatever you haul in."

"It does sound like you'd have a bit of fun here."

"I probably would. Though I do kind of wish my family was present. I know that being cooped-up underground is starting make them a bit stir-crazy. Also, I think Posy would like the birds."

_As long as she doesn't see what they were used in…_

"Thing is… Something bugs me about this place."

Gale's serious tone gets my full attention. "What do you mean? Like the people here are hiding something?"

He shakes his head. "No, nothing like that; barring the usual security-related stuff of course. In fact, they all seem to be extremely sincere. I actually can't really pinpoint what sets me on edge. There's just something… off about them. The only thing I can glean is that these people are dangerous, even the civilians. Friendly, but liable to gleefully tear you to shreds if you piss them off. And they are definitely pissed at the Capitol; I got that much from talking with them. I think the Quell and the Decimation really has them riled. They still don't trust the Rebellion but would gladly see Capitol and Peacekeeper blood run in the streets, even if they aren't the ones doing the bloodletting. And the Guardians are with them every step of the way."

"I was told that those who become Guardians practically sever ties with Two, but are you seriously telling me that they have actively become anti-Peacekeeper? It's not like they have any connection to Three."

"I'm just as surprised as you. But I don't think this is just them following the rest of the community out of a sense of duty. Something has seriously pissed a lot of those guys off."

 _Hmm… Something to figure out later._ "So the people here unnerve you, yet you still want your family to be here?"

He actually smiles at that. "Weird, huh? Well while I consider these folk dangerous, I do also have the feeling that, if you get them to like you, Central could be one of the safest places to stay."

Once we finish up, I offer to help clean up, but Gale insists that he's fine. Actually he insists in quite an adamant manner, so I back off. While most of the dishes and uncooked food gets put away, he leaves the hash, gravy, and biscuits on the stove for everybody else when they wake up.

A bottle full of amber liquid catches my attention. "What's this?" I ask as I hold it up to the light.

Gale briefly looks forward to see what I'm inquiring about. "Oh, it's a golden currant melomel that Beetee got. Supposedly the mead here is a specialty."

"What's so special about it?"

"They use tracker jacker honey. It apparently gives an extra 'bonus'."

Not that I've ever been much for imbibing in alcohol in the first place — how people can get past the bitterness and burning to actually enjoy drinking baffles me — but that pleasant bit of news makes me set the bottle carefully back down on the counter and step away. I wonder if we're going to have to drink that later; I hope not.

As I wander around the common room, I'm suddenly drawn to a picture sitting on an end table. When I take a look at the man and woman in there, everything hits me like a pile of bricks.

_How did I not realize this sooner? We're in their version of the Victors' Village._

And since Beetee's probably settled into his room, this likely means that I was in Wiress' old room. Which discomfits me a bit.

Sure enough, back on my side of the common area, there's a spot on the wall with pictures of Wiress through the years. A lot of them are with a younger Beetee and Porus; the latter definitely doesn't look any less intimidating when younger. However, the vast majority are with kids; most of those in a classroom setting with the children crowding around her, plus a couple with the Commandant's children.

Below the pictures is a small table with a bunch of letters on them. I feel slightly uncomfortable going through them, but curiosity wins out. I instantly regret the decision.

All of these were right before she was reaped for the Quell. Some letters simply wish her the best of luck. Others are pretty aggressive and tell her to wipe the field. Some actually do give the hope that she'll figure out something that will allow everybody to escape, though more than a few are fairly resigned as to what will likely happen. All of them thank her for all she's done for them.

And to think many of us victors simply dismissed Wiress as just "Nuts". It sends a bout of shame through me.

"She was always good with children."

The old victor's voice makes me jump a bit and turn sheepishly around. "Beetee, I'm sorry for—"

He just impatiently dismisses my apology with a huff and a wave. "Oh please. If she cared about people reading those, she wouldn't have left them out in the open."

Still, I carefully set the letters down and arrange them in a neat stack. "You were saying?"

"Nothing really to be said. During most of the year, she taught at the school. During the Games, while I was pretty resigned as to the fate of our tributes — most of the kids we got were the lowest of the low, with not even factory experience — Wiress always made it a point to get to know every child; not just their names, but all about their friends, families, and experiences. In the end, committing to familiarity took its toll on her with each death. But she still kept on going and always managed to put aside her pain for the kids, both here and during the Games."

A thought suddenly occurs to me. "What about those in the Corps? Was she close to them?"

Beetee brings up a picture that I must have missed. There she's surrounded by an enthusiastic bunch of what has to be fresh graduates as none of them look any older than me.

"She always made it a point to greet each batch of boots and help them acclimate." He gives a small chuckle. "You might as well lump them in with the young children. It was always common for them to bring in broken equipment or weaponry for her to fix so they didn't have to deal with the quartermaster. If Porus is the Corps' stern mother, then Wiress was practically the doting nana."

With that info, everything falls into place about the anger in this community _._ "Yeah, I remember Luce implying that she was pretty important here."

"That's indeed true. However, I'll have you know that the Commandant's son was _especially_ important to her, and the feeling was mutual. Yes, she loved both kids, but it seems that the boy was the one she cared for the most. Luce practically became the child she never planned on having, and she helped him develop from an awkward little kid to a… just-as-awkward, yet accomplished, young man. The same could probably be said for me and Luce's sister, though with a bit less sentimentality."

"Were you and Wiress… uh… you know…" I inquire lamely.

"Oh not at all. Just friends. Really close friends who supported each other, but friends nonetheless. Nothing more, nothing less." He offers me a smile. "At the very least, I'm glad that the last words she heard were yours complimenting her. You have no idea how much it means to all of us here. In fact, it's probably the reason that Luce put you in her old room instead of one of the guest rooms."

Despite his intention, Beetee's words send another wave of guilt through me, and I try to ignore the prickling sensation in my eyes. "Just wish I could have done more." _Dammit… why does my voice have to come out so thickly?_

If Beetee notices, he makes no mention of it but simply mutters, "Don't we all…" He quickly changes gears. "Welp, I'm going have breakfast. Just want to let you know that we're supposed to meet at the Hub at 1100."

"Hub?" _Seriously, don't drop locations to the new guy without telling him what they are first._

He points towards the spot we came through originally at the opposite end of the plaza. Gracing the entrance to the train station and hangar, which appears to extend the same distance inside the wall as outside, are two streamlined figures holding aloft a massive ornate clock.

"In the meantime, I suggest using this time to take in the sights. Which reminds me…" Beetee brings out a tablet that has a similar device, that the girl had earlier, and tells me to run my thumb several times through said device. After I comply, he keys in a few things and then looks cheerfully at me. "And we're set. You're now able to use my account."

 _That was straightforward._ "Thanks."

"It's nothing. As of now, I seriously have enough money that I don't know what to do with it. And really, you should enjoy the day. Big things are about to happen."

I'm not sure that's a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have Gale as a bit of a master chef. Anybody living in the Seam, or the districts for that matter, would have to be fairly multidisciplinary to survive.


	21. The Fair Folk

I decide to take Beetee's advice and wander around town. It actually feels good to wear something normal; it occurs to me that I haven't dressed casually — the jumpsuits in Thirteen are not what I would consider casual — in public ever since the reaping.

Similar to Twelve's square, Central's shops and markets are concentrated along the long plaza. Though unlike Twelve, there's no clear way to tell merchants by their appearance. People here are also quite welcoming, with them treating me neither like an intruder nor a celebrity. I don't see anything that hints at whatever made Gale uneasy.

For some reason, the atmosphere's downright festive, with vendors offering discounts to the people milling in the plaza. Must have something to do with the "Glade", whatever the hell that is; I don't ask. In any case, I spend most of the time grabbing snacks here and there. It's nice to finally be somewhere without feeling like I'm about to get shot or something; then again, I _was_ just shot, so I guess that's already out of my system.

Close to ten, I wander towards the Hub. However, just around a hundred meters away, something gives me pause. Unlike the paved expanse that comprises most of the plaza, this last segment is a garden with vegetation, paths, and fountains arranged geometrically. I didn't pay much attention during our arrival due to focusing on the mission, but now I find myself drawn to the large statue at the southern end of this garden. A Guardian stands defiant — his back to the Tower as if he's facing the outside — despite the multiple wounds under his tattered uniform; one hand wields a machete-like sword and the other pushes a child back behind him. As I get closer, I notice that the stone plinth underneath is inscribed with a multitude of names and dates.

Realization hits as to what I'm looking at — _How the hell can there be so many names within the past thirty years?_  — and I feel like so much more of an intruder, especially considering my goal here.

"I hope my idiot brother didn't give you too much grief yesterday."

The statement behind me startles my thoughts away, and I quickly pivot to face the source: a girl around my age, give or take a year, puffing away at a cig. I also find myself looking her over several times; her knee-length sundress is definitely made to show off her… impressive figure.

Hey, I'm devoted to Katniss, not dead.

"Ah, you must be Lucia." I offer a hand, which she doesn't take.

"I'd rather you call me Lucy."

 _Tough customer._ "Alright. And I'd like to say that we had no trouble with Luce; he even fixed up my arm and such," I note before looking at her questioningly. "Why? You don't care for him?"

Lucy sighs, "Oh, don't get me wrong: I actually love my brother to death. There are just some times that he makes me wish that it's literal."

"By the way, where _is_ he?"

"He had some work to do earlier. Freak actually enjoys working in the clinic," she mutters. "Anyways, reckon he'll be here any mo—"

Sure enough, Lucy's interrupted by a familiar presence practically slamming into and lifting her up over his shoulder. She doesn't even resist as he spins her around; instead, she gives me a resigned look that states, _"See what I mean?"_

"How's my favorite sis?" Luce exclaims through a mouth full of food — I think it's one… or several… of my cookies — as he sets her back on the ground.

Lucy scowls back as she brushes herself off. "I'm your _only_ sister. Also, our bedrooms are right next to each other; there's really no need to act like we ain't met since yesterday."

"Point still stands! By the way, have you met Gale Hawthorne yet? You even share the same scowls."

"Not interested."

"I never said you should da—"

"You were implying it."

If it weren't for the set of pictures I saw earlier and well as Porus' statement, I would have had a hard time believing that these two are siblings. Sure both of them are fairly tall, lithe — granted, Luce is a bit more muscle-bound than is his sister — and brown haired, which really doesn't narrow things down. On closer inspection though, there does seems to be two definite indicators of their sibling-ship via a light freckling and the hazel color of their eyes; both have exactly the same gold-flecked proportion of green, blue, and brown in their irises to the point that it's almost unnerving.

Otherwise, they're an exercise in contrasts.

Luce has the type of skin that's just starting to lose the deep tan gained over the summer, while Lucy contains a warm complexion that probably retains its darkness even throughout the winter. The tattoos covering Luce's torso are as complex and elaborate as my paintings despite their monochromatic and abstract nature, while the designs on Lucy are sparse and simplistic. In contrast with the tattoos, the guy's unadorned and dressed as simply as possible without his uniform; on the other hand, the girl is covered in piercings, and her dress definitely doesn't look like it came cheap. And so on.

The biggest difference is their personalities. I bet that Luce can out-Delly Delly — if Delly was hooked up to a steady supply of caffeine — in terms of sheer friendliness and cheer; not to mention that he appears to have no concept of personal space. On the other hand, his sister is downright dour to the point of making Gale look like a suitable candidate as a Capitol escort, and seems to actively avoid getting within close proximity of others. I definitely can see how they gravitated towards their respective victors.

"Anyways, I don't think taking outsiders to the Glade is a good idea."

Lucy's statement actually seems to cause Luce to become fairly serious. "I know, but orders are from the top. Something about making things clear to them."

As much as I'd like them to explain this Glade business, something else come to my mind. "Out of curiosity…"

"Yeah?" they reply in unison. _Okay, they're definitely siblings…_

"The Commandant told me that even though you aren't her birth children, you're still related. She then said to ask either of you if I had any questions. So… anybody care to explain?"

Both of them look at each other before Lucy shrugs and says, "Short version: Mom's our great half-aunt who adopted us."

_Okay… that sounds a bit more convoluted than what I'm used to._

She adds, "Or do you do you want the long version?"

"Long version please."

"Alright. Ma's dad was stationed as a Peacekeeper several times in the Capitol before he became the Peacekeeper Generalissimus. Well, in his early days before he got married, apparently he slept around town more than a bit. It was inevitable that one of his flings got preggers. Whoever the child was is irrelevant; she was the mother of the woman who birthed us."

"Why don't you just say 'grandmother'?"

"Because that would imply that we have any attachment to those whores," she growls, startling me with that harsh labeling. "Just because they passed down their genes to me don't mean shit regarding familial ties."

"They were madams," Luce clarifies. "Or at least courtesans."

"Not when they're dead. Then they're just whores," Lucy retorts with enough venom that makes me suspect her issue is with more than just the profession; though I'm not going to ask. "As I was saying, the first child followed in her mother's footsteps and her child did the same. Soon, Luce was born, followed by me soon after. Both of our XY-donors are unknown, hence the surname 'Stone'; it's a Two thing."

"Or as Ned would like to say, we're 'Bastards from a Bastard'," Luce chirps.

"Yeah, well Ned's incapable of functioning without coming up with at least one insult for the day."

"Come on; he ain't _that_ bad. Besides, _I_ think it has a nice ring to it. Even though technically it'd be 'Bastards from a Bastard from a Bastard'." What follows is Luce going through the moniker in various tones — Lucy eventually shuts him up — before he adds, "Also, it's better than his usual set of nicknames for you."

"What does he call me?"

The Corpsman's eyes goes wide in panic in response to his sister's narrowed ones. "Oh y-you didn't know?"

"Reckon I don't."

"Ain't too important," he nervously chuckles.

"Tell. Me. Now."

He mumbles, "One's the 'Bastard with Boobs'."

"And the other?" Despite Lucy's even voice, her temple twitches.

Luce's squeak is almost imperceptible: "'The Bitch'."

"Wait till I get my hands on that little runt," she snarls. "I'll show him what a bitch I can be."

"Actually he never said you're 'a bitch'; you're ' _The_ Bitch'. You know: Alpha Bitch, Bitch Prime, Mother of Bitches—"

"I get it!" she snaps and looks at me. "I ain't a bitch."

I decide that it's best I don't answer. Instead, I ask, "Was there any more to this story?"

"Oh yeah. Anyways, Ma managed to track us down and removed us from the whore's custody. We spent a year or so in Two with our great-grandpa before we were finally cleared to live here in Central a while ago. As you can see, I went for the science route and Luce went into the military."

"Yeah, I hung around with the Guardians since the beginning. They even called me 'Little Boots' for a while, though Ma got angry and told them to pick another nickname; something about not wanting me to be named after a 'deranged and hedonistic tyrant'," Luce notes with a shrug. I have no clue what he's talking about either.

"Don't ask me; ain't much for history," Lucy concedes. "Anyways, that's the gist. Satisfied?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Good," she states before turning her cig off and pocketing it. "Because the rest of your group's here."

Not only are we joined by Gale and the victors, but the squad seems to be coming with us as well; Mitchell has his arm in a sling and Jackson's in a wheelchair, but they're otherwise fine. Once everybody's gathered, the siblings begin handing out wristbands to us. Something about visitor safety when we venture outside the force field. Then we board one of the eastbound trains.

As we begin our journey and emerge from a tunnel, I gaze upon the ever-shifting landscape. In the urban portion, canals and pedestrian walkways crisscross in between parks and sturdy buildings; at a certain point, the rail branches off, with one branch going deeper into the town. Soon the town gives way to the wilderness, where forests predominate with farms visible here and there in a patchwork; in the mid distance, I can see the inland sea sparkling in the late morning sunlight. The whole time, the Tower remains a beacon-like focal point.

We finally stop at the opposite side from where we left. A Guardian checks that our wristbands before allowing us to proceed via a trolley. After going past the wall, we move along a causeway, crossing a wide moat and marsh to reach a plateau-like structure appearing to hug along the contour of said moat. Already, I can see quite few people gathered on the rooftop. The whole thing overlooks a wide rocky and open expanse covered in short scrubby vegetation and surrounded by dense forest.

Despite the picturesque setting — a wonderful and relaxing mixture of warm sunlight and a cool breeze, along with the melodic chirping of birds — I still feel that something's wrong, especially after hearing Lucy's concerns about us being here.

"So you're Peeta Mellark…" a voice drawls out behind me.

 _Dammit! Does everybody here like sneaking up on me?_ This time, however, I manage to not jump but instead turn slowly to face my greeter.

Many in Central have their fair share of scars, which probably comes with the setting. Actually, those scars seem to be worn with pride; albeit clearly healed in a controlled way so as not to disfigure. However, the boy before me — also probably close to the same age — has clearly been dealt a bad hand.

Scratches crisscross all over his arms and face — relatively new ones at that judging by how they shine pale against his dusky complexion — and notches mark the edges of his earlobes. Auburn hair is streaked with patches of white, and the same seems to go for his eyebrows wherever a scar goes through. Most noticeable is a set of claw marks that starts at his forehead and runs all the way down the right side of his face to the jawline; in place of his right eye is a patch that appears grafted on.

The remaining eye shines a brilliant blue and, just like Prim's, is reminiscent of a tropical sea. However, while Prim's echo the ocean's promise of wonder and discovery, this one reminds me how bad I am at swimming.

Despite the boy's small frame — seriously, I think he _just_ hit five feet — broad shoulders and visible lines of wiry muscle dispel any notion of weakness. Normally that kind of build would simply evoke a skill at gymnastics; for this boy though, there's an unnerving resemblance to a wild dog.

And now I can truly appreciate Gale's commentary about the people here putting him on edge.

There's also something familiar about this guy, but I can't put my finger on it.

"Yeah, that's me. Can I help you?" I ask.

That left eye goes cold. "Just wanted to see the guy who got my ma and pa killed."

 _What?_ "I… I…" I'm struggling to form a coherent response. I mean, how does one respond to an accusation like that?

Suddenly he barks out a laugh. "I'm just fucking with you! Should see the look on your face."

 _Who the hell jokes around about this?_ "Oh… So your folks are alright?"

"Nope. They were killed in the Decimation. Still, it ain't your fault, even if I do reckon you're an overly-idealistic rube."

 _Wow…_ "All things considered, this doesn't seem to be bothering you all that much."

The boy flashes a tight toothy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Actually, I'm pretty pissed-off right now. My folks may have known what they were getting into when they joined that damn Rebellion, but that doesn't lessen their loss any more. So right now, ain't nothing I wish more than to see those white-clad assholes scream in terror and soil themselves as they're torn limb from limb.

"Oh, where are my manners?" He holds out a hand. "Edwen Bannon."

"Ned!" Luce strides over to us. "Are you giving Peeta a hard time?"

"Just seeing what Mellark's made of. Just seeing what he's made of…" Judging from his glances, the boy's not impressed.

Luce seems oblivious to this as he states, "Anyways, Ma wants us all to be in the same spot. You can join us if you want, Ned."

"Why not…" Edwen says with a shrug as he follows us to where my group is waiting next to a large podium. Once we get there, I can see Lucy giving a caustic glare towards the boy, who pointedly ignores it.

The whole time, people go around with tablets, taking amounts for what appears to be a betting pool.

When one of them comes to Beetee, he simply states, "I'll put down twenty on a reversal."

"Ain't going to specify this time, Beetee?" the lady asks with a smile.

"Nah, I'm a bit rusty on the selections right now," he remarks good-naturedly. "Eh, narrow it down to a bird one."

Before the lady can come to us, the old victor makes it a point for her to pass us over. I'm still really not sure what they are betting on.

When Edwen's reached, I can see Luce looking over his shoulder and remarking, "Still betting on her? You know she never shows up."

"Dewdrop's going to appear today."

"That's what you said last time."

"Reckon time's gonna be different. In any case, it ain't like I'm gonna give up on her."

"Sounds like you're getting a bit attached."

A small grin appears on Edwen's face. "I reckon that we have a lot in common."

"You're both tiny and psychotic gingers?"

Edwen responds to Luce's chirpy reply with a glare. "I was going to say that we're both resilient and resourceful, you rainbow-headed bastard."

_Really have no clue what everybody's talking about._

"Anyways," the younger guy says, "About damn time the good Commandant removed that Capitolite trollop from office. I swear, it seems that the Capitol purposely appoints those idiots as a way to antagonize us."

"Well, the one who came before wasn't too bad. She even called us the 'Fair Folk' once."

"She called you guys what?" Gale practically yelps with a look of extreme alarm written all over his face.

Luce shrugs. "The Fair Folk. I pretty sure that's what she said. I mean, I ain't Finnick, but…"

"The woman wasn't referring to your looks. She was probably referring to the Fae." When most of us stare at Gale with blank expressions, he clarifies. "Faeries."

"Fairies?" Lucy scoffs. "I don't recall us having any wings."

"Must be the hair," Ned mutters while gesturing towards Luce.

Now I feel the need to scoff. "His hair? I've seen the pictures. There's nothing out-of-the-ordinary about Luce's—" — Edwen unceremoniously reaches up and plucks the cap from the Corpsman's head. — "… hair…"

I'm temporarily at a loss for words — same goes for the rest of my crew barring Beetee, who just looks resigned — and really don't know whether to laugh, give a compliment, or just gape stupidly.

Luce's hair is cut in a standard military fade, and whenever he had his cap on, one could only see the brown stubble on the side and back of his head. Now, however, I can see that almost all of the hair on the top of his head is a bright cyan, with swaths of magenta and yellow at the front of his hairline; the whole thing is a freaking exercise in the subtractive color model. The effect is pretty jarring to say the least; it probably looks even weirder whenever he's in uniform.

When I finally find something to say, I simply go with, "Well then…"

Lucy's the one to explain. "Over a year ago, my _special_ brother lost a bet and had to be the one to test out a new hair dye we developed. Well, next thing we know, he finds out that he actually likes coloring his hair." She shakes her head as if it were the biggest shame in the family. "It used to be that you could tell when a new month came around because there would be a new color, but ever since the beginning of this year, he's been stuck with the same ridiculous scheme."

"Hey, the kids like it!" Luce blurts out. "Fa—"

"I wouldn't count the opinions of a bunch of children being checked up during your clinic hours as relevant."

"How did the Commandant take it?" I ask.

Lucy snorts. "How do you think Ma reacted? She's gotten used to it, but that doesn't mean she approves."

"Well, my hair's within regulation, so it ain't like it's going to be an actual issue," Luce states before looking at me with a big grin. "By the way, you wanna see something cool?"

Before I can reply, he takes out a small device and waves around his head. Next thing I know, his hair begins to glow. Soon the whole thing looks like a pyre of embers; CMY embers, but embers nonetheless. I'm seriously expecting the sound of crackling and glowing flecks to fly off or something.

"Okay, that's pretty cool," I admit. The rest of the guys, even Gale, nod their heads.

"I know, right!" the Corpsman exclaims ecstatically as he puts his cap back on once the light has faded away. "Like I said before: the kids like it."

"How did you achieve that?"

"Ask this guy," he says, slapping Edwen on the back. "He was the one who tweaked the formula."

The smaller guy just shrugs. "I simply modified several microbes to utilize the dye and hair as a substrate. The device Luce used simply send a signal to them to emit light."

"Ned here is a master of glowy things."

"Bioluminescence," Edwen corrects with a scowl.

"Glowy things," Luce insists with a sage nod. "Fact."

"Much as I hate to break up this terminology debate," Gale states, "I have to say that it's probably not the hair either that caused the woman to call you all the Fae. I'm not talking about little winged fairies or fairy godmothers. I'm talking about the sidthe, the Wild Hunt, the Tuatha Dé Danann, Seelie and Unseelie…"

 _Okay, now he's lost us._ The only one who doesn't seem to be utterly clueless is Haymitch, who's actually looking on with an impressed air. Gale looks extremely irritated at our confusion, "Have none of you read _A Midsummer's Night Dream_ , _A Once and Future King_ , or any of the versions of _Tam Lin_?"

I never found the time for reading for the sake of leisure; Mother told me there was no point is reading about fantasy realms when there was work to be done in the present.

Haymitch grins. "I see that Zeph made sure his literary expertise got passed down at least to you. Am I correct?"

Gale's eyes grow wide at my mentor's words. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"You forget that your pa and I went to school together. It was common for us to trade books; we also may have stolen some from the school. You probably had a nice stockpile hidden away in your house, didn't you."

"Yeah. Even after the accident, I made sure to read some of the stories to my siblings."

"Well, at least you're doing one thing right."

Gale, upon realizing the full implication of Haymitch's statement, settles for a glare before continuing on with his explanation: "Anyways, the Fae lived in their own isolated communities and were not pleasant beings. Their notions of morality were completely alien to humans, if actually existent. Their antics ranged from playing tricks on people and killing farm animals, to enslaving individuals through obligations, kidnapping children, having victims trapped in time, and even raping humans to create new offspring. There were even worse things that happened if you offended them, especially through the breaking of any one of their house rules."

"So what you are saying is that by calling us the 'Fair Folk', that Capitolite bint was actually calling us amoral monsters?" Lucy asks. When Gale nods, she breathes out an exasperated, "Typical."

"Well, I can tell you folks one thing: we ain't damn rapists. In fact, they are some of our most common test subjects."

Edwen's nonchalant statement stops my train of thought in its tracks. "Y-you experiment on people?" I sputter out.

My horrified incredulity makes the young scientist's lips curl into a contemptuous sneer. "Well, lookie here… It seems we got ourselves a sensitive soul.

"To answer your fairly-redundant question, yes, we — not me specifically since it ain't my department — do experiment on people; mostly to test out new medical treatments and such. You can only do so much with animal test subjects. For example: that fancy blood poisoning medicine you got? Medical was only truly able to determine its full safety and efficiency through human trials."

"Still—"

"Let me ask you something, Mellark: Do you think that executing serial killers, rapists, and pedophiles is something out of the ordinary? Should they be released back into the open?"

"No, but—"

"Then why should this be any different? Hell, instead of just straight-up turning them into maggot food, we're making it so these parasitic fucksticks finally give something back for once in their short, pathetic lives."

"But is it worth losing your humanity in the process?"

My question does give the boy pause and garners a reaction; though not in the way I'm hoping for. "Humanity…" He drawls out the word with contempt and makes a face as if it's a poison that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "I think all the shit happening throughout Panem tells me enough about what your 'humanity' has to offer. Thanks, but no thanks."

"Ned…" Luce mutters in a sing-song manner, "I think you're starting to freak out the outsiders…"

"Let them freak out! They're probably going to freak out way more in a few minutes anyways. So just because Central's in the middle of the woods and some folks think our morals are looser than a harlot's snatch, that makes us 'Faeries'? Well then, let us be referred to as such! I ain't seeing how that's a bad thing. Actually, if anything, it simply means that we're so much more than mere men. So if saps like Pissy Mellark here can't handle the price of progress—"

"Hey Ned?" Luce begins tapping the younger guy over the head with a familiar item.

"Now what?" Edwen snaps at the Corpsman only to see another one of those tranq pens pointed right at his neck.

"Shut the fuck up." While Luce's tone remains friendly, if a bit concerned, there's a look in his eyes is surprisingly frigid and takes me aback.

The scientist looks as if he still wants to spit back a retort, but he finally settles for gritting his teeth and bringing out a flask to take a long swig out of it.

Luce pockets the injector and turns back to us. "Sorry about that. Ned ain't a bad guy. Really, he's not. It's just that he kinda gets a bit… passionate about things." _Things no decent person should be practicing._

I'm also wondering what Edwen meant when he said that we were "going to freak out way more in a few minutes anyways."

However, instead of voicing that, I just go with a simple, "Don't worry; I've heard worse." Being with people like the Careers and those wonderful presidents does tend to set the bar a bit high.

Luce adds in an earnest tone, "I do feel the need to mention that we are phasing out human test subjects in favor of fabricants."

"Fabricants?"

"Fabricated humans if you will. We take some genetic material to create a human body from scratch."

"So a clone?"

Edwen looks like he's about to go on another rant, but Luce stops him with a warning look. "Not really. A clone is a regular person like you or me; the only thing special about them is that only one 'parent' provides the genetic material. When you think about it, identical twins are pretty much clones of each other," the Corpsman explains. "A fabricant, on the other hand, ain't really developed but constructed. Unlike a clone, we can create a fabricant to exact age and build specifications."

"So, if you wanted to, you could end up creating a copy of me to wander around the place?" The thought of that makes my skin crawl.

"Not at all. For one thing, it'd be near impossible to make a perfect copy due to the simple fact that a good portion of the physical traits that you have are determined by the elements such as physical trauma, diet, and exposure to sunlight. We could do things like stimulate muscle growth and cutting your hair, but the result would still probably look a bit too 'perfect'. And really, unless you were trying to fake your death or something, what would be the point?

"Because the most important thing about a fabricant is that it holds no consciousness. No thoughts, no soul…" For some reason, that last word causes Edwen to snort, which Luce ignores. "All their vitals function in full health, but otherwise, they might as well be vegetables. In simple terms: they're dummies with a heartbeat."

The whole concept sounds a bit creepy — okay, it sounds _really_ creepy — but compared to working on actual living beings, even if those people may be convicts…

"I think I can live with that."

Before we can get into any other uncomfortable topic, music begins blaring, and a couple of announcers come on.

"Good day Central! And must I say that today is a great day. Theodora?"

"It sure is, Lewis. In fact, I'd go so far as labeling this weather as perfect for a day at the Glade."

"Not only that, but it appears we have some guests today with us. This includes the Rebellion's very own Peeta Mellark!"

Applause from everybody surrounds us as a camera comes float down in front of my face. Doing what I do best, I smile and wave at it.

Theodora coos, "Aw… Personable little fella isn't he? No wonder the Capitol was so enamored."

"You should have seen him handle the crowds during his last visit. I'll admit that I was a bit concerned that those imports were about to go ballistic, but the boy managed to keep things stable, if not exactly peaceful.

"In any case, let's get this show on the road!"

At that, Porus, Charlton, and Lewis walk up to the podium. The Commandant doesn't waste any time. "Please rise."

Everybody in the area stands at attention as the image of the seal is projected in front of us and music — clearly not the Capitol anthem — plays.

After that concludes, she orders, "Bring out the condemned."

Then I see a bunch of Peacekeepers, as well as Sunsilver, being brought out.

 _The condemned?_ I round on Luce to hiss, "Wait, is this an execution?"

He's clearly uncomfortable. "I wouldn't say that. I mean, they all have a chance of making it out alive."

"But what are those chances?"

He twiddles his fingers before finally answering, "Slim-to-none…"

So they are about to execute a bunch of people and are making entertainment out of it? This sounds too familiar to something the Capitol does.

Though the funny thing is that all of the Peacekeepers are not only carrying backpacks, they are in their armor and fully armed. Sunsilver herself is no longer in her dress but a loose jumpsuit; she's also carrying a gun and a backpack.

"What's with the weapons?" I ask.

Beetee explains, "Several of the Peacekeepers trained to be Careers. Porus is giving them the chance to live their dream."

"So _is_ this like the Games!"

"Not really. Everybody in the Glade gets an equal chance of defending themselves and escaping."

It bugs me that Beetee, of all people, is so nonchalant. _Is this connected to the betting pool?_

The Commandant begins to address the Capitol-affiliated individuals, "You have all been found guilty of violation of ceasefire terms, violation of hospitality, assault, attempted murder, and conspiracy to subvert the autonomy of this community. The sentence is exile. Do any of you have last words?"

A particularly-bold Peacekeeper decides to have his say, "Yeah I do! I want to let you and your little band of hillbilly freaks know that your days are numbered till the Capitol crushes this pathetic community of traitors. And when I get out of here, I'm going to help bring you down!"

That garners a laugh from everybody — not a pleasant one at that — and Porus dryly retorts, "I highly doubt that."

She gestures for me to come up to the podium and remarks, "If there's nothing else to be said…" In front of her is a large metal button with a clock face above it.

"As you are our guest," Porus says, "you are allowed to commence the event. Of course, you can have someone substitute for you; I have no quibble about such things."

"What does this button do?"

"That's for you to find out." _Great, now you're being cryptic._

I really don't feel comfortable doing this, especially since I don't know what _it_ does. _Maybe I can ask Gale; I'd be giving him what he wants…_

"Looks like somebody's having a crisis of conscience here," Theodora wryly remarks, causing many in the audience to respond with more laughter.

_Shut up…_

"Fine, I'll do it myself," Gale mutters before storming over and slamming his hand down on the device.

Upon the button being pressed, the clock begins counting down from sixty, and I can see a projection a little ways out doing the same thing. Lights at the edge of the forest pulse red to each second as the condemned begin the rapid trek out. The whole time, cameras catch their every move and project it in front of us while the audience goes wild with shouts and catcalls. The only ones not joining in the frenzy is my group and the Commandant, who's presiding over the whole thing like a hawk. This is definitely too reminiscent of the Games for my liking.

"It's almost a bit ironic," Gale quips.

"What is?" I'm in very little mood for cryptic statements right now.

"These Peacekeepers and Capitolites spend all their time supporting the Games. And now they are going through something similar. I think it's quite appropriate."

_I think it's quite disturbing to be honest._

The vitriolic Peacekeeper from earlier turns around to shoot us — it makes me and the rest of my group instantly duck — but, to his bemusement, the gun doesn't fire; everybody else finds it hilarious. Lewis jumps on this with a laugh, "Ah, there's always that one guy who forgets about the automated safety that functions in case the gun's aimed towards us. At least he figured it out now instead of later; that would have been awkward."

Once the clock hits zero, a screeching tune is whistled out and all of the lights flash bright green. It's obvious that it catches the condemned off guard as they stop running to look around in confusion.

 _So what's going to happen now? Is this like some sick hunting game where there is going to be a pursuit? Are they simply going to gun down the individuals because they are in range? Are they actually just going to let these people go and the whole exercise is one big prank?_ The bad thing is that I could see any of the above options being valid.

To my surprise, nothing happens once the tune subsides down and the lights dim. Everybody in the audience is silent yet staring intently outwards as if waiting in bated breath, and even the birds have stopped chirping.

That's when mutts burst into the clearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned's actually an OC who preceded the formation of this story in another fic. He's... a bit of a prick.


	22. Happy Fun Time

With my experiences in the Games, and watching all those recaps, I thought that I knew all that there could be known about mutts.

Well, it turns out that I was wrong.

I watch in horror as the multitude of diverse… creatures — some of the forms are too bizarre for me to label them as plain animals — descend upon the newly-released individuals. In the wake of such onslaught, any semblance of unit cohesion put in place by the Peacekeeper in charge — the same one who yelled at Porus and tried to shoot at us; I guess I could refer to him as Peacekeeper One — breaks down completely, with most individuals scattering for the nearest safe spot.

From here, it's obvious that there's nowhere safe to run to.

A Peacekeeper is almost at the end of the clearing and into the forest when a shadow is cast over him. He has barely enough time to look over his shoulder when a large crested bird of prey slams down, killing him instantly. The bird immediately starts tearing at the corpse and fluffing itself up to stake a claim against other mutts, including similar birds, trying to steal a bite.

"How appropriate," Theodora remarks.

"How so?" asks Lewis.

"We send in a whole bunch of lackeys loyal to the Capitol out there, and the first kill goes to an eagle."

"Ah, I see what you mean. Well, the Harpies are almost always the first ones to show up. On a random note, I still the think the name is silly."

"Why's that?"

"Because they aren't derived from Harpy Eagles. Instead they stem from _Pithecophaga jefferyi_ , with some Bald Eagle added in. Of course, their wingspan is almost twice that of their progenitors."

"Well, I doubt many people are going to care too much about the etymology about our mutts. Think about the term 'muttation'."

"I try not to," Lewis mutters, which earns shouts of assent from many of the scientists present. "And we weren't the ones who coined it; it was some idiot Capi— Oh, hey look! It seems that we're getting some cassowary reversals into the fray."

A herd — herd is the best description I can think of for the group; "flock" doesn't sound quite right — of birds runs into the clearing. Though "bird" also seems to be a generous terminology; sure they have beaks and glossy black feathers. However, they also have long tails and prominent claws at the end of their wings. The bird in the lead catches up with another Peacekeeper attempting to break for the wood and uses those claws to hold him in place as it delivers a well-aimed kick to the poor SOB's chest; the massive claw on its middle toe tears into the Peacekeeper armor as if it were butter, and the man's insides come spilling out. As he falls to the ground, the other birds descend upon the writhing body like a crowd of Capitol socialites around a banquet table.

Tearing my eyes away from that grisly sight, I look at Beetee, who seems to be quietly rejoicing over winning his part of the betting pool. I bite back any commentary about how disturbing I find that and instead focus on a more neutral query at hand:

"What do they mean by 'reversals'?"

The victor seems a little too happy to explain. "A reversal is where they take a creature and modify it so that vestigial characteristics come to the forefront. In this case, they make it so that birds have tails and hands again; occasionally, they will throw in some teeth. Birds are usually the most popular thing to reverse as it's the closest thing we can get to bringing back non-avian theropods. When we get back into the citadel, I can show you some other more harmless avian reversals."

_Fun…_

In general, the attitude of the audience here chills me to the core. It goes past any connection to the Hunger Games. With the Capitolites, the enthusiasm seemed to be stem from a general disconnect, as well as a drunkenness to pleasure and drama. With these folk however… I really can't call them immoral in the same way that I see in the Capitol because there has to be morals to corrupt in the first place. At least, that's the impression I'm getting; they seem to be no more moral or immoral than a storm sweeping through a community or a pack of wolves mobbing prey.

It suddenly makes me glad that they decide to live in such an isolated manner, and it's also starting to make me question as to whether recruiting them as allies is a good idea or not. Granted, I haven't changed my opinion in that the people overall that I've met seem to be decent folk; for all I know, it could just be the mutt scientists that are batshit insane.

One of the smaller Peacekeepers begins climbing a tree to escape those damn wolves — I nearly flipped shit upon seeing those creatures again; I can actually remember most of them, including some of the scars inflicted — and perches on the lowest branch. As he attempts to figure out a way to move to the other trees, a massive bug-creature-thingy drops down from an above branch and latches to his neck. The Peacekeeper struggles for a bit, but then suddenly looks dazed and almost serene as he proceeds to wrap his arms and legs around the branch as tightly as possible.

Lewis is quick to catch on what the creature is. "Ooh, a parasitoid. I believe this one is descended from an ichneumon wasp. As you can see with the current subject, this mutt keeps its prey alive so her larvae have a stable food supply in the early part of their growth period; you can see her inserting the eggs right now. She'll come back every now and then to keep the host nice and content, as well as slowing his vitals down to prolong the lifespan. In the meantime, he's big enough to serve as a food source for other small critters that may pass on by."

_How — no, why — do they come up with this stuff? Who in their right mind designs a creature that turns a human being into an incubator for things to hatch out of them?_

Then it re-occurs to me that "right mind" doesn't seem to apply at all to these folk.

The cameras move to a pair of Peacekeeper that actually appear to be a good ways into the forest and away from the action occurring in the Glade itself; Peacekeeper One managed to keep two of his comrades near his and are so far keeping the teaming mutts at bay to the point of even downing a couple here and there. Even though there doesn't seem to be any mutts nearby, the pair isn't slowing their pace. They reach an area that's covered in tall towers of dirt, when the ground underneath one of them collapses.

What he falls into is a massive colony of what looks like ants or termites. Whatever they are, they begin swarming and spraying him with some chemical. In a few seconds, it's clear that the chemical is eating through his armor, clothes, and flesh. The Peacekeeper's writhing only makes the bugs double up on the spraying…

"Fortunately, napalm termites can only survive in that designated location. So no surprise colonies popping up all over the place," chirps Lewis.

Mitchell's finally unable to take it and rushes to a waste bin to puke out his last meal. A good chunk of the other soldiers from Thirteen look like they are prepared to join him; interesting how they can fight in a warzone, yet can't stomach what's going on right now. Then again, I myself am getting close to the limit, and Gale's beginning to look like he's regretting pressing that button.

The surviving member of the pair backs away from his partners melting; he doesn't see the massive beast feasting on those same termites and bumps right into it. The creature turns to look at the human with placid disinterest and turns back to continue feeding. Unfortunately, the Peacekeeper doesn't respond in kind and proceeds to unload his gun on the animal. All the bullets do is ricochet harmlessly off its large scales; he does succeed in pissing it off though. The mutt turns around fully this time and leans back on its haunches — it has to be at least fifteen feet tall — and bellows before decapitating the Peacekeeper with a swipe of its clawed hand.

_Okay, that one I'll attribute to stupidity on the victim's part._

"Out of curiosity, Lewis: does that count as a reversal?"

"Sorry, but no. Despite how much it looks like a _Megatherium_ , pangolins are in too distinct of clades from sloths to make that label."

Some in the audience groan at that reveal; probably lost money on that wager.

The trio of Peacekeepers finally breaks apart when some large deer mutt charges them, even though Peacekeeper One manages to take it down. Two of them rush into the forest, with Peacekeeper One sticking around in the clearing for some reason.

That's when Edwen starts yammering excitedly, "See, I told you she'd show up!"

Compared to all the creatures I've seen, the mutt that he's pointing to frankly looks pretty unremarkable. If anything, she looks like a stocky, dog-sized weasel covered in soft rust-colored fur. Currently, she's just prowling at the edge of the forest, intently watching the commotion in the middle of the clearing.

"You know," Edwen remarks to me, "it's pretty fortunate you didn't run into Dewdrop during the Quell. Reckon you be pretty screwed if you had."

"She was in the Quell?"

"Yeah, and damn did she perform well against that tribute. I believe you labeled her the 'beast'."

Suddenly, my mind goes back to a hovercraft claw having to dip down several times. _An oversized weasel was responsible for all that carnage?_ "Oh…"

"What?"

"It's just that I was expecting something a bit less…"

"A bit less what?" he snaps with a scowl.

"Fluffy." I was going to say "tiny", but I suspect that it would be a poor choice of words around this guy.

A smirk — it's honestly on the disturbing side — appears on the boy's face. "Just you wait and see…"

Before I know it, the little furry beast bursts into action. The main thing that goes through my mind in watching her run is just how fast that thing is. One of the wolf mutts breaks ranks to attack her, and in response she slams into it; the wolf is actually almost torn in half from the impact.

"Aw… she killed Peeta…" Luce notes in a sad tone.

Sure enough, the downed mutt is covered in a wavy yellow fur and has blue eyes. As strange as it is, that's probably the most disturbing thing I've seen so far today. All things considered, I'm glad that I didn't have to face that, or a Katniss mutt, at the end of the Games.

The crowd's quick to react to the mutt, as are the announcers. "Looks like we got a bit of a wildcard in the fray. One of our newest additions from the Quell batch, and damn does seem to not be preparing to take any prisoners. Say, what's this one made of?"

"Looks like it's based off a mustelid. Either wolverine or honey badger."

"Honey badger!" Edwen hollers out.

"Well, you heard it from the source: honey badger. It's clear that some liberties have been taken with the coat color and length, but that's to be expected."

_Wait, this kid actually designed a mutt for the Games?_

"Watching her during the daytime doesn't do her justice," the boy remarks to me. "You see how her fur can light up when she's really riled."

"Like I said," Luce quips, "Ned's the master of the glowy things. It's pretty much his signature."

"… That we ain't able to see," Lucy mutters.

"Hey!" Edwen snaps. "It ain't like I have any choice when she appears."

"You made a diurnal creature that glows. That defines contradictory."

Like many things here, I have no clue and thus focus my attention back to the field where the other mutts seem to be giving… Dewdrop a wide birth as she rushes into to attack the Peacekeeper. Any shot that is aimed at her goes wide as she quickly zigzags from left to right. Finally she hops onto a little rocky outcropping just a couple feet away from her intended target. Surprisingly, she doesn't budge as the Peacekeeper aims his gun at her and…

Nothing happens.

The gunman is just as bemused by the turn of events as he pulls the trigger several times. That's when it becomes clear: The mutt has just situated herself in such a way that, when the gun is aimed at her, it's pointing directly in our direction, causing the safety to turn on. The only response so far from the creature is her raising her fur and hackles in a snarl; I think I actually see a bit of that glow.

"I told you she was resourceful," Edwen says with a grin.

Peacekeeper One finally realizes that his gun would do him no good and slowly reaches for the sword on his back. The moment his hand wraps around the handle, Dewdrop pounces, and the poor schmuck is barely able to let off a scream before she is on him.

The result is… messy.

Focus is brought to the remaining Peacekeepers who have attempted to flee. One decides to cross a good-sized stream.

"Hmm…" Theodora muses. "Crossing water is a rational method of escaping land predators. Of course, that's only if the water itself lacks predators."

Sure enough, the shivering Peacekeeper is two-thirds of the way across and in knee-deep water when a large and ugly mutt — it looks like a wrinkled and flattened lizard in the same patterned color scheme as the tan rocky streambed — ambushes and pulls him under.

"Nice prediction, Theodora," Lewis chimes in. "And even this late in the year, our hellbender mutts are still pretty active."

By the time to footage goes to the last Peacekeeper, it's clear that he's already being chased by something.

"That… doesn't look like any mutt," I remark with a raised eyebrow at the others.

"That's because it ain't," retorts Edwen.

The irony of the situation isn't lost on the announcers. "Well, wouldn't it be something if this guy escapes all of our mutts only to be taken down by a common black bear?"

"Well, it is an abnormally large bear."

"But still just a bear."

Right as the guy is about to be run down, something casually bats the bear aside, sending it flying. The creature… the creature…

_W-Wha—WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?_

"It's one of our _Sentinel_ -class mutts," explains Beetee, "and no, these creatures weren't made for the Games. The Capitol is also likely not aware of their existence."

"There are others like this?" I gasp out in incredulity.

"I'd say it's still around the single digits — something this big is pretty hard to design and maintain — but yeah, there are others." The old victor gives a wry smile and doesn't elaborate further.

After the monstrosity tosses the bear's carcass back to eat as if it were just a strawberry, it slowly turns its eyes towards the gibbering Peacekeeper, who seems to be rooted on the spot. As a set of tendril-like tongues snake towards him, the Peacekeeper does what any rational person would do when faced with such adversity: he takes his gun and sticks the barrel in his own mouth before pulling the trigger.

"Welp, it looks like there is just one person left. Let's see how she's doing."

Sunsilver seems to be stopping for a breather in a small clearing in the woods, and there seems to be no dangerous mutts in sight.

That's when a black crested bird settles on a branch near her. It's clear what it is, as I've seen similar remains around Katniss and Finnick in the Quell: a jabberjay. Soon others seem to join it. By the time the Capitolite notices her feathered company, she's surrounded by hundreds of them; all staring at her.

I plug my ears right when they start screaming.

The horrific cacophony of human screams fills the air. Man or woman, child or elder; there is no type of person not represented in the din. As Sunsilver runs off in terror, the birds follow in a swarm-like flock that almost seems to have a collective mind of its own.

"You can definitely see the influence of their starling forbearers in the flock behavior," comments Lewis.

After a while, it's clear that the birds are actually herding the woman. If she goes in a direction they don't like, they concentrate in her path. All the while, they continue issuing that awful screaming. Very soon, the birds double their efforts which cause Sunsilver to run faster. She too busy running to notice the edge of the bluff in front of her, with the predictable gravity-induced result. The jabberjays crowd around her broken body to feed.

And just like that, the show's over. Though Porus seems to have another announcement to make:

"In light of recent events, the position of liaison to this proud community has just been vacated."

She pauses as everybody else chuckles good-naturedly at what I guess is her sense of humor before continuing: "However, I don't intend on leaving that spot vacant any longer. I also intend that the next liaison — this time, to a different faction — actually be from this community.

"That is why I hereby appoint Beetee as our current liaison to the Rebellion. Welcome back, my friend."

Even before she finishes, cheers and applause erupts from everybody. The old victor looks completely at a loss for words, even as we pat him on the back and Luce give him a big hug.

"Of course," Porus adds when things quiet down, "I'm aware that you are currently doing some important weaponry design for the rebels. Well, it goes without saying that we have facilities for that. So, what do you say to this offer"

Beetee doesn't even hesitate when he yells, "I accept. And I must say… It's good to be home!" The crowd gives a cheer even louder than the one before, and several guys actually run over to carry the victor to the Commandant so that they can shake hands.

I have a strong suspicion that the Porus didn't bother consulting Coin before making this decision, but, to my extreme satisfaction, I doubt the president can do anything about it.

While everybody mingles around, I see Edwen run over to the edge of the rooftop while carrying something in his hand. Out of curiosity, I decide to follow him. When I get there I see him grinning down at Dewdrop, who is jumping around at the base of the structure; I try to ignore the fact that her muzzle is completely caked in blood.

"Who's a good girl? Whooo's a good girl?" the scientist coos at the energetic mutt, which would be cute if it weren't for the grisly circumstances. "You are! Yes, you are… Yeeess, you aaare…"

He tosses the item, which the mutt chases after before picking it up in her mouth and bolting off back into the woods.

"The ball's full of honey," Edwen explains to me. "It's a good treat for her to have every now and then."

The really disturbing thing is how caring he actually sounds towards the mutt. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he values them more than people.

"Bannon! You are going to answer for this!"

At the angry outburst, Edwen just rolls his eyes and turns towards the young man marching angrily towards him. "What now, Thayer?"

"Your weasel killed one of my wolves," the other scientist seethes as he jabs a finger in the boy's direction.

"Dewdrop ain't no weasel," Edwen growls, "and it ain't my fault your 'wolf' decided to attack her. Hell, those idiot lackeys took out at least six of them before my mutt got involved. And seriously, with the way you designed those things to value style over substance, I'm surprised they didn't go down sooner."

"Those wolves have plenty of strength, and their psychological impact is undeniable."

Despite the given advice about remaining unobtrusive, that last statement causes me to grit out venomously, "Thanks for bringing that up, asshole."

"No one asked for your opinion, _outsider_ ," Thayer sneers.

"Considering that he lost a fucking leg to those things, I'd say that Mellark's opinion is quite valid," Edwen retorts in my defense, which surprises the hell out of me. "Dewdrop may have been used in the Games, but at least she always dispatches her prey in short order, which is much more than could be said about your mutts. That's assuming they actually succeed in killing their prey."

"Well, at least I'm not the pipsqueak who decided to practically model a weasel after himself."

That seems to hit a nerve as Edwen screams "SHE AIN'T A WEASEL!" and moves to launch himself at the other scientist, but Luce intercepts and throws him over his shoulders.

The young scientist is not that pleased with the turn of events and growls, "Lucius Stone, you cocksucker, put me down."

"Not until you chill out."

"I'm chill. I'm chill."

"I'm talking 'lemonade' chill, not 'blizzard that kills everything in its path' chill."

"Yeah, Ned," the other scientist smugly interjects, "you should listen to the guy."

That just causes the boy to writhe around in an aggravated fit and grit out more obscenities, but Luce's firm grip keeps him from escaping.

"Billy," Luce chastises in a warning tone, "don't antagonize him further. What's done is done."

"… Fine," Thayer huffs out and trudges off. And not too soon; I was starting to get close to yelling at the guy myself. Who knew that I'd actually side with Edwen Bannon over an issue?

That's when I notice what's so familiar about the ginger boy as he's held across the Corpsman's shoulders.

"Hey, Luce?"

"Hmm?"

"That 'incident' Beetee mentioned happening several months back…"

The expression on his face darkens a bit. "Like I said before, I was just doing my duty."

"'Just doing my duty.'" Edwen mimics in a mocking tone. "This guy's seriously too modest for his own good. I owe him for saving my life, and I don't say that lightly." _Yeah, you don't exactly seem the type to dish out compliments._

"Well, I also couldn't very well lose a member of our band."

"True, true."

"I take it that you were the boy being carried by Luce in the picture?" I ask.

A grimace appears on the scientist's face. "Ain't my proudest moment."

"I reckon having an eye clawed-out and face torn into ribbons ain't something to considered be anybody's proudest moment," Luce adds.

"So what happened?" I ask.

Edwen looks as if he just swallowed something bitter. "Monkeys happened."

A pang of horrid familiarity goes through me. "You mean…"

"Yeah, those same orange-furred primates that attacked you during the Quarter Quell. Normally mixing a golden lion tamarin and a gelada wouldn't be too bad. But the fucknugget who designed them wanted to impress the Capitol so that he could transfer out. His bright idea was to increase the aggression up several notches, and then make it so that they, unlike all our other mutts, ain't receptive to the tags we usually carry." He shakes his head in disgust. "Well, surprise-surprise, they escaped in our labs and wreaked havoc.

"The only thing good that came out of this was that the only fatality from the incident was the same treasonous Capitol-worshipper who was responsible for all of this in the first place. Also, after the Quell was over, we euthanized all those wretched beasts, which is something we rarely do. In the end, the whole thing probably would have been worse had Luce here not intervened."

"Last I checked, the monkeys wouldn't have been able to be contained in the first place without help from a certain somebody else," Luce counters.

"And look what it got me," grumbles Edwen.

"You don't seem to be complaining too much about your new eye."

A smirk appears on the scientist's face. "True. Is it okay if show it off to Mellark here?"

"You know that it's still healing and has to be protected from the light," Luce admonishes.

"Aw, come on man. It'd just be a couple seconds."

"… Oh, alright. And you seemed to have calmed down enough." Without any warning, Luce immediately lets go of his living cargo, who tumbles from his shoulders with a yelp. Edwen hits the ground in a roll and immediately stands up unscathed, though not without sending a scowl towards the Corpsman, who just responds with an innocuous grin.

The scientist walks over to me and fiddles with his eye patch, which causes it to open up like a door. Behind the heavily-scarred lids lies an eye shining with a thin emerald corona; within that ring of green is a mass of various shades of scarlet radiating out from the pupil. The effect is more than a bit unnerving in itself, but pairing and contrasting it with his natural blue eye ratchets that factor up several fold; it's probably on purpose.

As he closes the patch back up, he asks, "Cool, huh?"

I think that with this guy, there's no point in beating around the bush. "Honestly, it bugs the hell out of me."

That earns a feral grin. "Perfect.

"Besides," he says as he lightly punches Luce's arm, "the additive color model is way cooler than the subtractive one."

"Yeah, but can your eyes glow?" Luce retorts good-naturedly.

Edwen is about to reply, pauses, and snaps his mouth shut with a muttered "Dammit…"

As I wander away from the two guys, the Commandant approaches me with cool purpose.

"So what do you think?" she asks conversationally while gesturing towards the carnage strewn before us.

"Heh… Would you like me to give the diplomatic answer or the honest one?"

My non-answer earns a small snort. "Figured as much. In any case, I just wish let you know something:

"If it turns out that this rebellion fails, and the standing of this community comes in jeopardy as a result, I'm going to personally hold you accountable. Is that fair?"

"Sure…" I respond, even as apprehension fills me about where she's going with this.

"Good that we're on the same page then. Well, I'm just giving you some forward notice that, in such an event, you can be sure that I _will_ find you before Snow does. When I do so, I _will_ drop you into this forest, and I won't give you any sort of supply. Do I make myself clear?"

I involuntarily gulp as I give a sidelong glance towards the mutts finishing off the last scraps of their meals. "Crystal."

~oOo~

"I don't know why I have to be here," grumbles a surly — okay, surlier than usual — Gale.

He's standing with me, Haymtich, and Beetee in the hangar as we watch a hovercraft from Thirteen land in front of us. It's the last day of the ceasefire, which gives the district enough time to make an impromptu "delivery".

"Come on, man; don't be such a sourpuss. This is practically an official event, which you should attend as part of the welcoming committee." I motion towards Pollux, who's prepared to capture everything.

"Yeah, but then why aren't we dressed in our gear?" he asks, gesturing at our casual attire in the process.

"I said this was _practically_ an official event."

"Whatever."

As the door to the hovercraft lowers, Luce rushes forward with a couple other corpsmen. The first to disembark is Finnick with Annie walking closely next to his wheelchair. Following behind them is Johanna and Chaff.

Like Annie, both Finnick and Johanna were declared to be unfit for combat; Annie's unwillingness to share interrogation techniques, Finnick's current mental state, and Johanna's abrasive disposition didn't endear them any further to the district. So Thirteen was very willing to cut loose the "dead weight". In the meantime, the two rescued victors would be getting medical treatment here. Chaff is just here to look after them in the meantime; once it comes time to go back in the field, he'll be joining us.

Gale and I stand off to the side as we watch Luce lead everybody to a small hovercraft that is little bigger than a truck. To his credit, the corpsman neither gushes in his usual victor-worship mode, nor does he act awkwardly upon seeing Finnick's state. Instead, he maintains a professional, yet amicable attitude as he good-naturedly chats everybody up; though he does briefly freeze when Johanna slaps him on the ass, which gets a laugh out of everybody else including his comrades. Once the hovercraft is loaded up, with Beetee and Haymitch being the last people to board, we watch as it zips off towards town.

Gale's about to leave, but I put a restraining grip on his shoulder to prevent his departure. "Wait a moment; we aren't done here yet."

The already-present scowl on his face deepens. "I thought that was the last of everybody. There's more? It's not Heavensbee, is it? Please tell me it's not Heavensbee."

"No, it's not Plutarch. And what's with the bitchy attitude lately? I would have thought you'd be happy with the recent news."

Since Beetee's now residing and working in Central as the liaison to Thirteen, it made little sense for Gale to continue the weapons' design work — I really have no clue what those two are developing, and I frankly don't want to know — in a long-distance manner. So I suggested that he move here for the time being, which Porus was surprisingly receptive to; as long as Gale follows the rules, takes care of himself, and is in general a productive member of society, the Commandant could care less if he makes himself at home.

Gale sighs with rapid a huff of air and scratches the back of his head. "Don't get me wrong; I appreciate you giving the recommendation to let me stay, and I do like this place even if the people here sometimes appear to be completely deranged." _No kidding…_ "I just wish that I would have had more input on the decision."

"Lemme guess: you miss your family."

"Yeah…"

"Well," I remark wryly, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that part any longer."

"Wait, what do you—"

"GAALE!"

I can't help but grin as Gale's eyes widen and jaw drops as he turns to face the last people to disembark. Before long, the source of the high-pitched exclamation bounds towards her big brother, who recovers quickly enough to scoop her up in his arms and spin her around with a big smile on his face. Soon, his other two siblings are there to envelop him in a hug — naturally Rory does so with some totally-not-feigned reluctance — while Hazelle stands off to the side with my niece; once the rest of the kids disengage enough to give room, she joins in. All the while, I take several steps back to give everybody room.

It may have been just half-a-week, but the way that the Hawthornes reunite gives the impression that they haven't seen each other for at least of month or something. As he holds Posy tight to his chest, Gale looks right at me — his eyes suspiciously seem to be wet — and gives a small appreciative nod; he definitely knows that Thirteen didn't bring his family here on their own volition. I simply give a small smile back and wave off the thanks.

Posy makes it a point to run over to give me a quick hug before scurrying back to Gale to hop on his shoulders, and the boys press me for questions as to what getting shot is like; "It sucks". Once all of the greetings have been exchanged, we start heading out of the hanger and into town. As we exit out of the Hub, I can see that the sight of the community garners even more of an awestruck reaction out of Gale's family, which makes sense as the two places they are familiar with are poverty-ridden Twelve and austere-and-subterranean Thirteen. Besides the Tower — everybody's downright gleeful when I inform them that it's possible to go to the top — the main thing that seems to get a delighted reaction out of the kids are the diverse mutts roaming freely around; I do notice that Hazelle also briefly, yet understandably, stiffens when she spots the pink birds and carnivorous squirrels. It probably doesn't help that the kids' collective excitement increases when they see that it's possible to feed the animals.

We just spend the entire afternoon just roaming the around the plaza; I was going to head off in my own way to give the family space, but they insisted I come along. Everybody in the community is just as receptive towards the Hawthornes — Posy's naturally-endearing nature probably doesn't hurt — and the boys already seem to be making friends with some of the kids. Of course, when Rory and Vick see the tattoos and start getting some ideas of their own, their mom's none too pleased.

As I wait outside one of the clothing shops with the boys — Gale promised Posy that he would get her a dress since his sister noticed the new clothes he was wearing — Hazelle approaches me.

"I told you that you're a good person."

That statement makes me fairly uncomfortable. "Well, I couldn't exactly say 'no' to Posy's request to walk with y—"

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it, Peeta Mellark." Her stern tone almost makes me shrink in on myself. "It's very obvious as to who convinced District Thirteen to take us here, as well as who convinced this community to receive us."

"Honestly, Central really didn't take any convincing. As long as you all follow the rules, you're welcome here. Of course, I do have to forward the message that it's not the community's responsibility to feed and house you. But there are enough rooms on the victors' floor to hold everybody comfortably, and Beetee's account should be enough to provide. Of course," I add upon seeing her apprehensive expression, "if you want a job, I know a couple of places willing to hire some help." After a certain point, intercepting and dealing with the whole Seam mentality about debts and handouts has become second nature to me.

"Also," I add, "the kids are going to have to attend school, and since Vick and Rory are of age, those two are to partake in the Scouting program."

"Scouting?"

"Just a program for those between the ages of eight and eighteen. It teaches the kids stuff like leadership skills, self-sufficiency, and a bit of self-defense."

"This is not a lead-up to them being sent out to fight, is it?" Hazelle asks sternly, and not to my surprise; one of the things she really doesn't like about Thirteen is how anybody fit and of age — the minimum being fourteen, which is a bit too close to Rory's age for her comfort — is conscripted to serve the district's war machine.

Fortunately, I already have an answer on hand. "Not necessarily; the Corps are an all-volunteer force. Besides, even if the Corps didn't have a policy to _officially_ recruit only from Two, Rory's still under the minimum enlistment age." And there is now way in hell that he's going to join without Hazelle's permission; the boy may have increased interest about the idea of following in his big brother's footsteps into the military, but I also know that he's not the type to undermine his mother.

"Well, again, thank you for this. Despite some… reservations about the place," — I notice she's still looking at the pink birds — "it's better than the alternative. You have no idea how glad the children are to be out in the open again. It must have been quite a challenge on your part." Before I know it, I'm being enveloped in a motherly hug; at least, it's what I _think_ should be a motherly hug.

It takes a significant amount of willpower to maintain my composure and deal with the inexplicable presence of dust in the air.

"Nonsense. The rest of the victors were already going to be brought in for treatment. And it was just practical for Command to allow for Gale and his family to be together. So it was no problem at all."

Which is complete bullshit.

But the Hawthornes don't need to know exactly how bitter the debate between me and Coin was in terms of getting them out of Thirteen. The fact that Gale was going to be residing in Central — already another sore point — and that his family was more of a drain on, rather than an asset towards, the district's resources was irrelevant; the president knew that I was moving any form of leverage out from under her grasp. The whole thing almost devolved into a shouting match with more than enough veiled threats and accusations to go around. If it weren't for the fact that Central's contribution to the Rebellion has been exceedingly helpful so far, I probably wouldn't have gotten my way.

So yet another entry in the "I Hate You, Please Die" chapter of _The Coin-Mellark Guide for Proper Civil Discourse_ ; a must-read that's second only to _The Snow-Mellark Guide to Being a Complete Manipulative Bastard_.

In the end, however, only one thought goes through my mind as I witness Posy squealing in delight as she rides on the shoulders of a laughing Gale; Vick and Rory still gaping in wonderment at their surroundings; or Hazelle smiling as she cradles Beth in her arms and watches her kids already settling into their new home:

_Totally worth it…_

~oOo~

Of course, happy moments are merely a brief reprieve from the grim reality of life. And the reality is that we're still at war.

Once the ceasefire ends, it's the Capitol that decides to make the first move. And, even before the first Peacekeeper hovercraft flies for its destination, everybody already knows what the target is:

Central.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It goes without saying that all constituent creatures mentioned here are actual animals. Well, except for the Sentinal-class, which I leave to you to imagine.


	23. Not for Honor or Glory

Even the night before the ceasefire expired, the Commandant put the community on high alert. The Guardians were ordered to prep their stations, and civilians were sent down to the lower levels for their safety. The alert went into full defense mode once the expiration passed.

And here in the command center, I feel awfully exposed as we're at the top of a massive tower instead of a bunker. Besides the Commandant and various Central officials, my rebel delegation is also present. Projected on the screens are Paylor and, to my surprise, a victor from Two by the name of Lyme. It must mean that there is some discontent in that district.

As we take our places around the table, Beetee's greeted with slap on the back that makes him stumble and sends his glasses flying. The middle aged man who initiated the slap is imposing enough to make Brutus look like a starving kid from the Seam; he's also not in a formal attire like the rest of the individuals from Central.

Putting his glasses back on, the old victor introduces us. "Peeta, this is Leonidas MacLeod. Was Peacekeeper in the very beginning of Central's revival and helped Porus form the Guardian Corps. Now, he makes the best drinks in town. Leon, here's Peeta—"

"—Mellark." Leonidas gives a crushing handshake as he appraises me. "A pleasure, my boy. What do you think of our humble abode?"

 _Besides the mutts and psychos?_ "Well… no place like it; I can tell you that for sure."

My answer earns a booming laugh. "Benny, you weren't kidding when you said he's a diplomatic one! Keep that up, kid. I mean it."

"Thanks." I give him a grin that's probably on the sheepish side. "So brings a retired guy like you up here?"

"Perceptive as well. Well I have a son around your age; probably a couple years older. He's on his first field-op and I'm hoping to see him perform."

 _Talk about standards…_ "Well, I wish him the best of luck and safety."

"Appreciated," he states with a nod. "Now let's find our seats before Commander Small-n-Scrappy throws a fit." I almost choke on the water I'm drinking. Something tells me that, if one doesn't know the Commandant well, referring to her in that manner would be a very bad idea.

Once everybody has gathered around, the room darkens and a map is projected on the table. Several enemy hoverplanes can be coming their way from the north; ETA is around five minutes. Projectors soon turn on the walls and give us a 360-degree view to the outside while additional projectors keep the commanders online and show detailed footage. Porus orders everyone to hold their fire as we are likely just in the negotiation phase right now. Sure enough, once they arrive, the bombers just hover in sight of us.

Accompanying them is an incoming transmission from the District Three Peacekeeper headquarters.

The image that greets us is of a Head Peacekeeper sitting behind a desk in a richly-furnished room. Despite the situation at hand, my initial focus lands not on the man who called us, but rather the elaborate mural behind him. It doesn't take me long to figure out that the scenes displayed must be a history of Three; hell they might be a history of the land that came _before_ Three. Between families settling along a riverbank, trappers trading wares, merchants plying goods, and people gathering as towns are built, everything seems quite optimistic. There's even a cheerful scene of a boy and man fishing as a riverboat billows smoke in the background. However, the optimism diminishes significantly when I see one individual displayed on a stage like some product. And then I take in the images at the bottom: on one side, a man being tortured as a house burns in the background, and on the other, a worker being whipped in a setting disturbingly similar to Eleven.

That last scene reminds me of the world we live in and the type of person we're talking to. While this Head Peacekeeper may have been high-performing at one point, the sight before me gives no indication of that. Sure he keeps that uniform clean and well-kept — enough that its owner likely doesn't leave the indoors unless he really has to — but that doesn't hide how he practically flows out of his collar… or how twitchy he is despite attempts at hiding it with an arrogant demeanor. I also have a strong suspicion that a good chunk of those medals weighing down his uniform are ones that he awarded to himself; hell, most of them are probably not even standard Peacekeeper-issue.

"Head Peacekeeper Slate. What can I do for you this morning?" The Commandant speaks in the same tone as one would when asking whether you want cream or sugar in your tea.

"You know very well what I and the Capitol wish for: for you to stop this silly nonsense about joining those traitors. Do so, and we can forget all of this ever happened. If you hand over Peeta Mellark and the rest of those rebels in your care, we'll even throw in some added bonuses."

"So you wish for me to turn over these guests of mine?"

"I don't care what you call them; they are valuable enemies of the state. Giving them up will be more than enough to earn our gratitude." _Idiot should have stopped while he was behind._ "So what answer do you give?"

While the other commanders look concerned, Beetee and the other Central officials all have knowing smirks on their faces.

"Jon," Porus asks, "are we ready to broadcast?"

"Whenever you are," the mayor responds.

The Commandant looks straight into the camera at her desk. "People of Panem; Citizens of the Capitol: I am Commander Porus, Commandant of the Guardian Corps and head of security for the Central Triumvirate. Many of you may know Central by its moniker: the Capitol Laboratories. Well, I am here to inform you that we are not in the Capitol, and as of now, we have no affiliation whatsoever to it. So now, we are going to demonstrate as to what happens when Capitol lackeys go against us. You in the Capitol, since you all love to see a good show, I hope I don't disappoint."

Upon finishing that speech on a sardonic note, she simply looks at Slate to asks, "How is that for an answer? Oh, and I am giving your forces one chance to leave and never come back."

The Head Peacekeeper looks furious. "I was the one giving you the chance, and you blew it completely! Just as well; I don't know why the Capitol has tolerated your constant insubordination." Without wasting time, he orders for the attack to commence.

Aaand… nothing happens.

The planes just hover in place, no matter how much they are yelled at to get a move on. Some of the officials chuckle at the bemused expression on Slate's face while I try to figure out what's going on. Then I remember how our hovercraft was remotely overridden when we first arrived. The Commandant was just biding her time.

"You forget one thing, Slate. Central doesn't just refer to this citadel; _all_ of the Ozark Plateau is Central and thus, under our domain." Porus lets the bombers hang there a bit before coldly ordering, "Drop them."

With that order, the repulsors on the planes shut off, causing them to drop like rocks.

"Well… that was anti-climactic."

The Commandant ignores Haymitch's quip to look at the mortified Head Peacekeeper before stating, "Thank you for the raw material. We always appreciate such donations."

As the officials continue their chortling, Slate seems to be at a loss for words before he yells out, "Where's the attack force? They are supposed to be there any moment now!"

Barely has he spoken when an alarm sounds.

"Multiple hostiles inbound. ETA in thirty minutes. There's… there's… H-holy shit…" stutters a surveillance technician in what seems to be a state of fear, and when I look at the map, the fear is transferred to me for a simple reason: the entire periphery is practically solid red as an uncountable number of units stream in from all directions. They are not only arriving from the bases in Three, but the neighboring districts of Two, Eleven, and Ten. It's clear that we're outnumbered at least twenty-to-one.

"Something the matter?" Porus asks.

"It's just… There are so many targets!"

Nevermind… That's not fear I'm hearing from the Guardian; it's glee.

As orders are made and defenses readied, a sound streams in through the comm system; a sound of diverse percussive instruments playing live under the direction of a Guardian NCO. While the bronze instruments originate in Three, the dominant hide-and-wood drums drums are of several customs brought in from Two by Guardians. Ironically, the drums are a dying art in their home district — though I do recall them played when we were there for the Victory Tour — with even ceremonial function being diminished in the face of subtle Capitol pressure; after all, the government can't have its soldiers retain any cultural quirks. Here though, the sounds of war still beat to fill the troops with a fervor; despite our defensive status, the deep rhythm crafted by the ensemble actually makes it feel as the entire citadel's marching to meet the enemy instead of the other way around. Even I admit that the enthusiasm is infectious.

Still, I have this feeling that I really don't want to watch what happens next, but I'm going to do so anyways.

Besides, it's not like Porus makes it easier to ignore things as she speaks into a comm system that broadcasts directly to her mustering forces.

"Since its words and promises no longer bear fruit, the Capitol now resorts to threats. Since we are no longer content to live in a gilded aviary, they now come to build a cage of barbed steel. Since we are no longer content to sit by as the children of others get stolen, they now plan to steal ours." She pauses to allow that last bit to sink in a bit. "Yet even with all that, when Coriolanus Snow and his lackeys bring the weight of their might to our doorstep, they expect us to roll on our back to expose our belly. They expect hesitation on your part to fire upon those who share your district of origin. They expect an easy conquest."

"Well… will we prove their expectations right?"

"NO!" The immediate response of every Guardian roaring into their own comm is deafening and almost reverberates in my chest.   

"Will we surrender with a smile in an attempt to let bygones be bygones?"

"NO!"

"Will we submit to a pampered city that thrives on the blood of children?"

"NO!"

"If that's the case…" This time, even though she still addresses her Guardians, the way Porus looks into the lens of the camera makes it clear that the next message is for a wider audience. "Sons and daughters of Central, what _will_  we do?"

_I'm not going to like the answer, am I._

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

_Definitely don't like._

The Guardians' last response raises every hair on my body. It's not just the words themselves; it's the way they are laced with the kind of wrath fit for a rebel and bloodlust that rivals any Career. And I see that content reflected in the eyes of the Central officials around me; eyes that previously viewed me with a sincere warmth now shine like stained knives at the prospect of what's to come.

_What have I done?_

The Commandant stares back with an expression that not only tells me she knows what I'm thinking but also gives an answer in return. It reminds me that I wanted their help, so help is what they are going to give whether I like it or not.

And she's still not finished with her speech:

"You in the Capitol, you think yourselves the pinnacle of civilization. You think we quake in fear at the force you send: your shining Peacekeepers in white. Well, let me tell you something. While your Peacekeepers primped their uniforms for maximum whiteness and waxed poetic about honor and glory, our Guardians learned from our ancestors and neighbors how to wage war." Porus isn't even exaggerating about there being a war. I recently looked up just what kind of threat the Ouachita Waste is and… yeah, I'm no longer surprised she was allowed to develop her Guardians and retain Central's autonomy. "A war that they constantly fought and bled in, just so your precious Soldiers in White don't have to be distracted from lording over half-starved slaves. 

"And now that those same slaves are no longer afraid, do you expect _us_  to feel fear? Do you think your lackeys will gain anything?

"Well, the last is correct. But they will gain no honor, nor glory, and certainly not victory," she notes, contempt lacing each syllable, before concluding: "No, what they will gain is the role of fertilizing our forest."

"Ma'am," the technician cuts in to note, "ETA in under five minutes."

In the time that passes, I'm so consumed by the tension that I barely notice when Porus addresses me:

"Just over five hundred years ago, there was a great commander who hailed from the United States of America. His contingent of troops was outnumbered significantly by the enemy in winter conditions. Do you know what he said when faced with adversity?"

I shrug a shoulder with a shake of my head. "I really don't know. What did he say?"

"'We've been looking for the enemy for some time now. We've finally found him. We're surrounded…'" A rare and rather frightening smile appears on the her face. "'That simplifies things.'

"Guardians…" As Porus hails her defenders, silence falls. The drumbeats cease. No words are uttered; be it through the comms or in this room. It's as if all of Central holds its breath in wait for the rest of the order. One which the Commandant completes with a quiet one-syllable utterance:

"Kill."

And just like that, Central exhales. It exhales in the form of the drumbeat resuming in a crescendo and a deafening affirmation shouted from the Guardians: "YES MA'AM!" 

Then the sky is lit ablaze. 

Many times the vehicles would literally be sheared in half by the barrage they absorb. Hovercrafts lucky enough to avoid the artillery pieces are either slammed into the ground by remote overrides or intercepted via attacks from above. A Piasa uncloaks in front of a troop transport hovercraft to fire its cannons into the cockpit; the projectiles go all the way through the aircraft, leaving behind a cloud of red mist in their wake.

Despite the chaos that Central sows, computer-guided targeting ensures none of the Guardian's aircraft get hit in the crossfire nor does ammo get wasted on a single target. Just for kicks, they allow one Peacekeeper bomber to "slip" past the defenses just to see if it would hit the force field; some of the fragments that fly out actually hit other Peacekeeper aircraft.

Some of the Peacekeeper transports decide to land a good distance from the citadel to avoid the AA emplacements, and some are smart enough to land near elevated rail to use it as shelter. There they unload Peacekeepers, armored vehicles, and artillery pieces of their own; it doesn't do them any good. Even without being attacked, the rocky and hilly terrain compounded with the thick forests prevents the vehicles from going anywhere; one armored personnel carrier actually tips over and rolls down a hill, crushing an entire squad at the base. Also, the fact that we are watching footage of the ground units means a very simple fact that Central knows their coordinates; mortar fire takes out much of the heavy vehicles and artillery pieces. Then there are the mutts…

The presence of infantry units in the forest might as well be a banquet table in the eyes of those creatures. Sure, several here and there may be taken down by defensive fire from the Peacekeepers, but in the end, that just riles them up. Not even being in a vehicle guarantees safety; exemplified by a panther mutt clambering into a tank via the machine gunner's hatch, turning protective armor into a death trap.

All the while, command footage allows me to see the Guardians manning the defenses. For them, there is no horror or regret; there is just the desire to end those who threaten their home. A desire that manifests in cold directives and loud slur-laden taunts; I would try to discern expressions, but their faces are hidden behind protective glasses and rigid form-fitting masks adorned with monstrous visages. 

"Commander, troop trains inbound."

With the announcement, several armed trains filled with Peacekeepers are seen rapidly approaching the citadel with engines that keep them running even on the dead track.

Porus is unperturbed. "So they are planning to go through the front door. Gutsy. Well there's only one problem, independent power source or not, these trains are still hooked to the grid."

Sure enough, all trains screech to a halt before the doors are flung open. The Peacekeepers have barely enough time to look around in confusion when the slaughter begins. Several trains immediately have an onset of mutts upon them, turning the transports into oversized feeding troughs. One train is on a section of rail lined with heavy gun turrets, which make quick work of the exposed occupants and perforate the carriages while creating a sound similar to a mixture of ripping cloth and shearing of metal. Another train has only several doors on one side open as flamethrower turrets expel liquid fire into the improvised blast furnaces.

Worse of all, Central hacks into the security cameras and microphones inside the trains and hovercrafts to incorporate the footage into their broadcasts. So we get to see and hear, in detail, what happens to the occupants of those vehicles: when at least sixty Peacekeepers are trapped in a train car with four large armored mutts approaching from both sides; when a crowded windowless compartment gets riddled with 25mm-caliber projectiles until the interior is fully illuminated with sunlight; when an incendiary round hits an armored personnel carrier and cooks its occupants alive; when an overridden hovercraft is sent into a rapid spin while the passengers are unsecured…

_I really hope the kids aren't watching this._

After the last mutt departs and turrets fall silent, all trains begin moving back

"What are you doing?" Lyme asks in a slightly perturbed tone.

"Packaged deliveries for the officials in your district," Porus replies.

The entire time, Slate looks like he is about to have a complete horror-and-frustration-induced breakdown. All he does is alternate between staring at shock at the television footage and screaming orders all over the place towards the Peacekeepers around him; most of the abuse seems to hurled towards an especially-skittish yet sycophantic youth — probably his assistant — who looks like he's ready to burst into tears.

Within two hours, the attack has reaches its end. Smoke darkens the sky as metallic pyres dot the landscape. A casualty and damage assessment is made: the number of projected fatalities or critical injuries are in the lower-double-digits, and damage is relegated to easily-fixed scuffing on the wall with no loss of structural integrity. The other side isn't so lucky; let's just say that the Central's defensive counterattack has been very thorough. With the crash of a bomber, there is only one unit left: a troop transport hovercraft. For some reason, Porus is ordering everybody to hold their fire, yet definitely has the aircraft locked in place via an override.

"Now what are you doing?" I nervously ask the Commandant. Something bad is about to happen.

She turns to stare at me with an unreadable expression. "Sending a message." That where I notice a set of draconic creatures flying towards the hovercraft along with several small video cameras getting close-up footage.

"What the hell kind of message are you trying to send?" I admit that my query comes out angry yet a bit more panicky than I expected. By now the mutts have reached the hovercraft and are crawling around to find a way inside.

"What kind of message do you think I'm sending? If they go against us, they pay the consequences. Killing is not enough; you have to sear their collective memory. Open the loading doors." The attention of the mutts is obtained as main ramp-door to the hovercraft begins to lower. It opens just a bit before it stalls. One of the cameras slips inside to show the Peacekeepers desperately trying to keep the thing shut manually, though it's inevitable as to what's going to happen since the mutts are already clawing at the narrow opening.

 _Shitshitshit…_ "You did that with the trains already. But now the battle's over. This isn't eliminating enemies in the battlefield or even an execution; it's a sadistic act of murder." The door finally gives out and begins to lower gradually, which causes the occupants to rush as far as they can towards the front as the mutts begin to squeeze their way inside.

"What do you care what happens to a few Peacekeepers? It's clear that the districts won't miss them. And this is on par in terms of things they would normally cheer for during the Games or enact in the name of justice." Now that the door is all the way open, the mutts are free to have a good look towards the huddled group cowering and not even trying to raise weapons.

"I know that. Right now though, I don't see Peacekeepers; I see a bunch of scared human beings. And this may be a Central affair, but I got you into the fight in the first place. So it's just as much my responsibility as yours, and I'm saying this for me: please don't do this." Those mutts take their sweet time in approaching their intended victims, revealing rows upon rows of long wicked fangs with ropes of saliva dangling from them.

I don't know how much longer things drag out as Porus' eyes never leave mine, but it's longer than I would like considering the circumstances. Finally though, she breaks that eye-contact to state, "Very well. Halt the attack."

The order comes right on time as the mutts crouch in preparation to pounce. Suddenly their ears perk up and they relax their stance. Though before they leave, they still snap their jaws just inches away from the nearest individuals. As the Peacekeepers get their bearing back, one of the cameras still stays behind as Porus speaks over their comm system.

"Congratulations. All of you get to live to fight another day. Though I would suggest that it be in your best interest to forgo the 'fighting' part. Because if I see this hovercraft back in Central, I will offer no leniency. Thus, I will also suggest landing somewhere that is not Peacekeeper-affiliated and shedding away your current occupation. This isn't just to avoid repercussions from either me or the rebels. It's simply that the way you conducted yourselves appeared cowardly, and we all know your superiors' views on such things.

"Lastly, know that it was not me who decided to spare you. Mellark here is convinced that you all deserve a second chance. It goes without saying that you owe the boy your life. I now suggest not only thanking him, but taking his role into account when you consider what your next course of action will be." The people are practically groveling towards the camera as they thank me, which frankly is a bit disconcerting. "Now go."

Once the override is released and the camera flies out, the hovercraft hightails as fast as possible. Paylor and Lyme look at me with approval, while the Central officials have expressions of neutrality about what I did. As long as nobody hates my guts here, that doesn't bother me.

Now that I think of it, the expression Porus was giving me actually seems to be one of scrutiny. For what reason, I have no idea.

Slate looks like he's just recovering from his crippling loss. At the very least, he has enough confidence to state, "You do know that you can't keep this up. Even if we have to sacrifice tens of thousands of troops at a time, your defenses will gradually be worn down to rubble."

"I'm aware of that. And in the end, that's what sets me apart from you: I actually value my people, and I'll do anything in my power to ensure their safety." Looking at Santos, she asks, "Are we clear?"

"We are indeed. No enemies inbound."

"Then bring out the Remingtons and set Peacekeeper base camps 03-01 and 03-02 as targets. Initiate double-tap protocol and set the order to fire whenever ready."

On the map, the bases right outside of West City and East City are highlighted. Then I notice some movement; two items at the structure by the Glade are being uncovered. When I get a clearer look, my jaw drops, and everybody who's not from Central is in as much shock. The items are a twin set of artillery guns, which in itself wouldn't be that remarkable if it weren't for the fact that their barrels have to each be around a hundred feet long. Once revealed, they begin a slow pivot until facing away from each other at a ninety-degree angle.

"Shield to offensive state in 3… 2… 1… Power is redirected," comes an announcement as the slight shimmering fades.

"Why did you weaken the force field?" I ask the Commandant.

"These railguns are extremely energy-intensive. This is why I waited until we were clear before deploying them. And I still wish to keep their presence secret except for these observers." I do notice that the guns themselves are not broadcasted. She proceeds to tell the other commanders, "Also, I hope for your sakes that none of your soldiers are near the targets."

After the guns tilt up and point into the sky at an appropriate angle, they each fire twice. They don't make the similar explosive noise that a gunpowder-based artillery piece makes; instead, the sound is similar to two thin and wobbly sheets of metal make when they strike each other after enough tension has been built. Except that the sound is magnified enough that I actually see shockwaves appear around the guns.

"Let's see how they do, shall we?"

Porus brings up the live security footage of both bases. The footage must be broadcasted as the Peacekeepers that are watching TV in the West City base begin waving their arms then looking towards the camera with expressions of trepidation. It would be comical if not for the coming event; because even as the alarms sound, the projectiles reach their destination. Instead of one shell landing, a hail of shrapnel rains down on the entire area. It reduces sturdy buildings to shreds and, even as they attempt to run to shelter, any individual caught in the open to a pink mist. The footage has to keep changing as the cameras are getting obliterated with the structures they're installed in. Then comes the second round…

To say that we observers are aghast would be a very strong understatement. I'm not even on the receiving end, and yet I feel like curling up in a ball to hide.

Slate practically gapes like a fish on dry land as his Peacekeepers watch the footage in horror; I think he's trying to speak but no sound's coming out.

"You probably are wondering why I haven't leveled your base," Porus casually states. "Well, for one thing, I really like the building you're in; it would be a shame to lose such a valuable piece of pre-Cataclysm architecture. Secondly, I already have a plan for you, and it's time we ended this."

At the end of the Commandant's statement, Slate's assistant suddenly doesn't look so nervous anymore. Actually, he's positively placid as he fiddles with his wristwatch. That's when muffled explosions intermixed with gunfire can be heard from the Peacekeeper end.

"What the hell is happening?" the Head Peacekeeper all but shouts into a communicator. Even from here, I can hear the panicky responses get cut off and replaced by shrill screams.

Then for some reason, music begins blaring out over the loudspeakers; it's a slow dirge played on fiddles and horns.

"And what the hell is this music and why is it playing?"

"It's a common District Three funeral song," the assistant calmly states with that unmistakable twang in place of his tremulous Two-accented voice, which causes everybody to freeze as he looks the Head Peacekeeper right in the eye and continues, "and it's for you."

Horrified comprehension dawns on Slate's face, and he is just in the process of demanding that the "infiltrator" be apprehended when the sound of a door being busted down can be heard. The youth takes advantage of the commotion to launch himself at the nearest Peacekeeper, who is just in the process of aiming her handgun at him. He closes the distance and grabs the Peacekeeper's gun arm, aims it away from him which causes the gun to fire into another Peacekeeper, keeps on moving so that the arm snaps backwards at the elbow and the gun falls from the hand, catches said gun and fires off at several unseen targets while holding the now-screaming human shield, and uses the last round to finish off his "gun donor" before he dives for cover.

Around the same time, the noise of heavy footfalls and machinegun fire intermingles with the panicked screams of Peacekeepers trying to fight back at some enemy that I can't see; occasionally I can hear a continuous whir of machinery and the now unmistakably wet sound of rending flesh. Slate is about to pull a gun of his own on the young infiltrator when _something_ wraps what looks like a metallic tentacle around him and yanks him back, taking out the camera in the process; however the broadcast feed immediately switches views to show the Head Peacekeeper being restrained.

All of this occurs in less than a minute. The result is a charnel house with only Slate and the youth left alive. An irrational part of me simply hopes that someone can clean and repair the mural which, it turns out, continues on to the other walls.

"Remember, Slate," Porus comments: "I did tell you last reaping that there would be a reckoning for your actions."

Slate, to his credit, seems to have some defiance left as he shakily screams out, "You… you people have no honor!"

That causes an uproarious amount of laughter to abound in the command center. Even the Commandant smirks a bit when she coolly remarks, "Honor, hmm? Why don't I let my operative enlighten you with our slogan?"

"Gladly, Commander," the not-Peacekeeper replies as he strides towards his captive. When he gets there, everything above his upper chest is cut off by the frame of the camera, though there is no move from him to correct the angle. He reaches past the camera to pull out a very unpleasant-looking hook-like knife before stating proudly:

"'Not for honor or glory: only the mission.'

"Though for the sake of dignity, I will grant you the chance to look your executioner in the eye and give a final statement."

For some reason, when the Peacekeeper looks up, he visibly pales. "Y-you're a monster…"

"And your point is?" As he grabs a fistful of Slate's to pull his head back, the youth adds with a growl, "Oh, by the way: Wiress and the people of West City send their regards."

And in one swift motion, he plunges the blade into the side of the neck and slashes outward to create a wide and grotesque second-smile that issues a wet gurgling noise as the older man crumples to the ground.

With that impromptu execution, the Commandant addresses the Capitol with a cold glare and concludes the broadcast with a final statement: "I hope you all were sufficiently entertained."

The whole room is silent for what feels like an agonizingly long period of time. While the expressions on the Central officials are either impassive or satisfied, most of us "outsiders" are looking on with varying levels of bemusement, if not abject horror, mixed with resignation.

Porus ignores this and quickly turns back to the operative, who stands by as if waiting for further instruction and still has his face blocked. "Is the area secure?"

"Affirmative, Commander. Arezzo assures me that all hostiles have been eliminated and assets seized. Rebel forces are predicted to arrive within the next four hours." Even in the formal tone, his voice sounds even younger now, with a softer yet still pronounced accent.

"Well good work, MacLeod, though you laid on the theatrics a bit thickly." _Ah, so this is Leonidas' son._ From the look on his face, the elder gentleman definitely seems to be proud of his boy's accomplishment. My version of making my dad proud was frosting a cake properly; different strokes I guess.

The younger MacLeod noticeably relaxes and chuckles. "Sorry, Ma'am; just thought it'd be something that Three would appreciate. And thank you."

"Understood. Just be aware that I allowed this not just for the broadcast value but because of the controlled nature of this operation. You usually won't have a luxury for such risky behavior.

"Now that we get that out of the way, how about you allow me to introduce you?"

"Oh, of course!" MacLeod proceeds to cheerfully coo to whatever is behind the camera: "Arezzo, look up a bit so everybody can see Daddy's face."

When the camera shifts up, several of the non-Central observers make noises of surprise, and I can now see what freaked out the Head Peacekeeper. In the place of the squirrely brown-eyed and tawny-haired Peacekeeper we saw at the beginning of the transmission, stands a smirking youth with dark chestnut hair and denim-blue eyes; even his complexion is slightly different than it was from before. If I didn't watch the whole event, I'd think that the two likenesses belong to two separate individuals.

As MacLeod salutes the military officials and gives a friendly wave to the rest of us — especially Beetee and his father — the Commandant states, "Fellow Commanders… Mellark: allow me to introduce Brutus MacLeod, a member of our recon division."

The familiar first name elicits an amused response from Haymitch and Lyme, which causes Brutus to send an exasperated scowl — something tells me he gets this a lot — towards the elder MacLeod.

Leonidas sighs, "Hey, we didn't name him. Besides, there's more to the name than that arrogant tool of a victor."

The off-tangent conversation is broken up by the Commandant before it goes completely off the rails when she addresses the youth, "In any case, and with that out of the way, I suggest you get back as soon as possible. There will likely be a welcoming committee awaiting your arrival."

Brutus barks out a laugh. "I don't doubt it. Alright, I just need to take care of a few things here and I'll be on my way."

"Safe travels, MacLeod."

"Will do, Commander," Brutus affirms as he shuts off his transmission.

Porus proceeds to tell the other commanders, "The fact that I allowed you three to see both the Remingtons and MacLeod means that I am placing some level of trust in you. I sincerely hope I am not mistaken. And I especially trust _you_ all not to relay this information towards President Coin."

The speed at which all three commanders concur would be amusing if it didn't have a troubling connotation about the leadership situation in the Rebellion.

After that business has concluded, Santos asks, "Commander, what's our next move?"

The Commandant doesn't even hesitate when she orders, "Show all Capitol-affiliated facilities within a 400-klick radius."

The map expands out until it includes not only all of Three, but portions of Districts Nine, Six, Eleven, Ten, and Two. Symbols light up in red — most are in Two and the disputed districts, but a couple actually appear in Six and Nine; rebels must have missed a spot — pinpointing various Peacekeeper assets: forward operating bases, airstrips, communications stations, supply depots, AA emplacements, housing units…

"Begin preparations for 'May Flowers' protocol, and wait for my signal."

Immediately, every red symbol is highlighted in yellow, and circles appear around the Peacekeeper bases at the eastern edge of Two and the northwestern boundary of Eleven, respectively. That's when I notice the Remingtons beginning their ponderous pivot, and a chill runs down my spine as it all clicks into place: Central's going to level every single enemy asset within reach and kill as many Peacekeepers as possible in the process. No battles; no objectives to be seized; no negotiations or grand proclamations; no prisoners; just simply wiping the enemy off the map.

Porus must note my unease at this new course of action as gives a sidelong glance towards me and remarks, "As I've said before, Mellark, my purpose is to ensure the security of Central and its inhabitants; not to fight for any lofty cause. Therefore, all adversaries, and those who back them, are to be treated as threats to be eliminated by any means necessary with any survivor left too beaten and demoralized to retaliate. It is especially important to act now while our adversaries are unable to communicate with each other." She then looks away to address the other commanders: "Is there anybody here who objects with this course of action? I am open to all thoughts and possible alternatives."

Boggs, Paylor, and Lyme all look just as uneasy as I feel, but none of them object. The closest to an objection is Paylor suggesting that the Rebellion could use the supplies in the Peacekeeper depots.

"Are you prepared to potentially incur casualties in taking the depots, as well as assuming the responsibility of interning prisoners?"

Paylor nods and the other commanders follow suit. "We are, and the elimination of the other targets would allow us to concentrate our efforts there more effectively."

"Fair enough." All of the supply depots become un-highlighted. The only other facilities left untouched are the field hospitals and aid stations. "Is there anything else? What about you Mellark? Do you have anything to say?"

To my surprise, Porus seems to be sincere. Don't get me wrong; there is no sympathy to be had in her expression. However, it's also clear that she isn't mocking me for my opinion, which is more than I can say for a others whom I've had… disagreements with.

It doesn't make this woman any less scary; reasonable, but still utterly coldblooded.

An eternity seems to pass before I finally heave a long resigned sigh. "You already have a good idea of what my opinion is on the subject. But as for any practical reasons to object… I got nothing. Do what you have to do."

As I plop back down on my chair and clutch Julian's picture tightly in my hands — even in casual wear, I still carry the picture with me as a reminder; Haymitch, for whatever reason, tells me that it's starting to be an unhealthy habit — I can feel the eyes trained on me from the other commanders and victors, all of whom are giving me varying looks of pity. For some irrational reason, it causes me to just to lean back and mutter, "No regrets…"

The Commandant gives me an understanding nod before issuing her order:

"Bring it all down."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody familiar with the works of [sohypothetically](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sohypothetically), especially [Girl's Night Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7063048/chapters/16055965), would recognize the MacLeods in a manner of speaking. I thank her for letting me adapt those OCs.
> 
> Note that the mural exists in real life. Cookie to anyone who figures out what building it's in.
> 
> The percussion ensemble is actually derived from kumi-daiko and gamelan beleganjur, not western military bands.


	24. Eye of the Firestorm

For some reason, I'm invited to Brutus' "homecoming"; not that I mind. As I walk to my destination, smoke still clutters the usually-pristine evening sky from the events earlier this day.

When I get to the hanger, I already see a large gathering of people. There's actually seems to be an equal number of scientists and Guardians in attendance — I'm starting to see that the line between them is a bit blurrier than I first thought — as well a few "townies". Luce spots me and proceeds to wave me over.

As I reach him, I can see that he's accompanied by a couple other guys. One of them is surprisingly Edwen, who offers me a slight nod. The other is a lanky young man with short black hair. On him is a solid bar tattooed horizontally across his face, what appears to be a collar wrapped snugly around his neck, nametag that's labeled "Ramire", and expression of extreme suspicion in my direction.

Naturally, Luce is the first to actually greet me: "Hey, Peeta. Quite some day, huh?"

"You could say that. I take it you've been busy?" Other than the townies and those of us from Command, very few people here look unscathed, judging by the grime and bandages. Only a triumph-induced high seems to be keeping them going.

"Just a bit. Oh, I'd like you to meet someone."

Ramire gruffly offers his hand to say, _without opening his mouth_ , "Joseph Ramire. And stop looking at me like that, Mellark."

It takes me a few seconds to realize that Joseph's voice is coming from a speaker in his collar. "It's… just that I never heard an artificial voice with such clarity."

He responds to my explanation with a scowl. "Bullshit."

"No, I'm serious. How do you actually put in inflection and such in the synthesizer?" While the voice does still have an electronic quality, it actually still sounds like it would belong to a male youth from Three. Then I remember Beetee saying how it wasn't hard to synthesize voices.

While the cranky mute doesn't relent with his scowl, he relaxs a bit at that. "We're just that good."

Luce, after giving Joseph an admonishing scowl of his own, forwards me an apologetic glance. "Sorry about Joe; he's a bit suspicious of outsiders. We're all a bit tense right now."

I assuage him with a nonchalant shrug. "It's alright, and I can understand."

Barely any time passes before the guest of honor makes his appearance… by riding in on this massive panther-like machine. The machine glances around fairly menacingly with a large camera-like eye surrounded by a bunch of little ones. A massive rotary canon with a grenade launcher attached sits on its back and the tip of its tail is covered in blades, all which seem to be stained a reddish brown. It pretty obvious this was the thing that rampaged throughout the Peacekeeper headquarters.

Once he dismounts the beast, to the cheers of everybody, he approaches Luce, and they exchange a typical display of masculine heterosexual affection: the handshake-hug-backpat combo.

After Brutus has greeted the rest of the guys, Luce beckons me forward. "Hey, Brue! I'd like you to meet—"

"—Peeta Mellark. We've met; sort of," Brutus states with a good-natured smile as he shakes my hand.

Other than the fact that he's probably as fit as any Guardian here, the appearance of the guy before me is an exercise in mediocrity. Unlike everybody else, there aren't even any tattoos visible on him. However, despite his eyes being bland in color as can be, there is no mistaking the intellect and alertness behind them. Also something that is definitely not average is the myriad set of oversized bug-and-centipede-like machines crawling all over him; it's a bit creepy to say the least.

I try to focus on anything but that, so I decide to bring up his little disguise routine, "That was a nifty little trick with your hair and eyes."

Brutus seems to share a conspiratorial smirk with Luce before saying, "Thanks. Would you like to see another demonstration?"

I barely get to say "sure" before he is waving some device across my face and over my head.

I'm about to ask what he's doing when I notice his hair starting to turn blond, his skin lightening a bit, and his eyes becoming more saturated in color.

Sure the guy has a bit of a leaner build than me and is probably an inch or two taller; not to mention some differences in facial structure. However, if looked at from a distance or with a person that's not paying close attention…

"Okay, okay, that's enough." I'll admit that my response is a bit more panicky than I would like.

"Just as well," Brutus remarks as his hair and eyes change back and he fiddles with something behind his ear. "I really hate wearing this thing."

He proceeds to peel a thin translucent material away from his face, revealing the complexion that I've come to associate with his original "setting".

At my unspoken question, he explains, "This mask has pigments that can give the impression of lighter or darker skin within reasonable boundaries. It can also wrinkle or smooth out a bit, as well as adding freckles and moles. However, it's still not as important as what I do with my eyes and hair. It's amazing how much people tend to pay attention to those two traits at the expense of everything else."

I ask the obvious question. "So how do you pull that off?"

Brutus gestures towards Luce. "I take it that you already know about his hair." When I nod, he continues: "What he has is a prototype of the stuff I have now. It's a chromatophore-based substance that can change both color and luster. The stuff in my eyes is a bit similar, though of a different symbiotic substance."

_Uh… what?_

"Did it hurt to install?" I ask while pointing at my own eyes. The idea of pumping stuff into my irises makes me shudder a bit.

Brutus shrugs and tilts his hand back and forth. "Eh…"

"What about those?" I gestures towards the little creepy crawlies on him.

A big grin appears on his face. "These are my babies. They helped install the bombs all over the base while Arezzo," he states while pointing to the panther-from-hell, "mopped things up."

"Seems pretty quick for you to eliminate all of the Peacekeepers in one fell swoop."

"Yeah, well… besides my babies here, the facility had people with rebel sympathies; they control the place now and are coordinating with the rebel army. Also…" The operative hesitates before asking, "Remember the fog that came after you during the Quell?"

 _I try not to._ "What about — Oh… oh, you have got to be shitting me…" I involuntarily take a step back and now imagine that fog consuming an entire Peacekeeper base, as well as the resultant carnage ensuing from it.

Brutus, to his credit, does look uncomfortable as he pulls out some sort of grenade. "It took a few to take care of things." _Good grief!_

Then again, I really shouldn't be surprised after all the stuff I've seen. Of course they were the ones who developed the compound first; it makes just as much sense for them to turn it into a deployable weapon. Gale would probably call it poetic irony.

Before things can get any more uncomfortable, Brutus' dad makes an appropriately hamtastic entrance that makes us both jump: "There he is! The boy of the hour!"

Flanking Leonidas is Beetee and a diminutive lady who's probably Brutus' mom. And following the three adults is what could be best described as a litter of adopted kids.

I quickly get out of the way as Brutus is completely mobbed by his siblings while his folks stand off to the side before offering their embrace. When they break apart, I notice that the dad has given his kid a bottle of some sort of drink. Beetee also comes to congratulate him on his job as well as just to examine the machines on him.

It doesn't take very long for the group to get into the booze, which is also provided by several kegs. As they reach new highs of drunken revelry, Brutus starts singing some sort of hymn while being supported by Luce on one side and Edwen on the other. I'll admit that Luce and Brutus can hold a tune pretty well; when I think about it, that skill probably helps the operative when he changes his tone and accent during a mission.

Soon the entire hangar joins in on the singing. The hymn's an upbeat one extolling things like comrades, progress… and obliterating their enemies. Cheery stuff like that.

I barely notice the elder MacLeod standing right next to me, but when I do, I quip, "I wonder… can they get the mockingjays to stop and listen?"

Leonidas looks thoughtful for a while before chuckling. "You know, I don't think we've ever tested that out. Wouldn't surprise me." He gives me a critical eye. "If I recollect correctly, that's how that girl got you."

The smile on my face grows wistful and I feel my eyes moisten. "Yeah… From the moment I heard her voice, I was a goner."

He gently pats me on the shoulder. "Well, keep that with you. Because, if all else fails, you'll still have something to fight for."

Can't argue with that…

"Peeta!" Luce strides over to us with a sloppy grin on his face. "Why ain't you joining the fun?"

"Looks tempting, but I don't think I'm in any shape to partake the festivities," I remark with a laugh while pointing at my sling. By now, the guys are getting pretty rowdy.

As we watch Edwen stumble and fall flat on his face, Luce offers a sage nod. "Reckon you may have a point there. In which case…" he notes as his face lights up, "let's get you set for a new leg."

~oOo~

"Are you sure you don't want us to remove your other leg? It will make everything nice and even," Doctor Nwin, the head operating physician, asks me as I'm lying here on the operating table.

I give her a nervous smile. "I'm sure. But thanks for the offer." The people preparing to work on me have been throwing around the most bizarre conversations and giving me some really disturbing suggestions.

"Pity. It would have been better if we made you digitigrade or even unguligrade."

"He could then be like Pan!" one of the assistant physicians pipes up.

"Wait, 'Pan'? Peeta. Pan. Peeta Pan!" The two doctors high-five at their own cleverness.

_I think I've just made a huge mistake._

"Heh… Is it too late for me to back out?" I ask.

"Hah! This guy's such a kidder!" Nwin quips as she presses a button. "No backsies."

"But—"

"Okay, we're done here."

_Wait, what._

I'm longer on the operating table but a hospital bed, with an orderly checking my stats. Seems the anesthetic worked pretty quickly, and I seem to have come out of the state just as quickly.

I wonder how much work they did here…

Lo and behold, as I look down towards my legs, it appears that's they did quite a bit. In the place of the fleshy stump that my leg formerly terminated at, there seems to be a mechanical-looking cap with various connectors and such at the end. They actually removed the skin there and made it so that the skin of my leg is grafted directly where flesh meets strange composite material; the advantage with this set up is supposedly that it's a bit more secure and won't have any chafing. The cap is also directly connected to my femur for extra security.

It turns out that the physicians took the liberty of making some other adjustments while I was out. Supposedly for better connectability between my brain and leg, they installed some kind of "augmentation" that would allow my nervous system to recognize the prosthesis easier. Oh, and they fixed my ribs, which is a plus.

As for the leg itself, since the thing's a custom job, it isn't going to be finished until several weeks from now. They need to set it up so that it matches with the size, weight, strength of my whole limb, and then go through a set of tests afterwards.

So in the meantime, the technicians have placed some adapter so that my usual leg would fit. Unfortunately, they mentioned that the thing is beyond repair and that I'll have to make due to until the replacement gets finished.

Eh, I'm used to waiting and have made due with worse.

~oOo~

Even since the Siege of Central — personally, I think "Massacre of the Peacekeepers" would probably be a more appropriate title — the tide has been rapidly turning for the Rebellion. The forwarding of the Capitol's former communication lines has been invaluable to rebel logistics and is keeping Peacekeeper forces in the dark. Also, the elimination of the Peacekeeper forces within that 400-klick radius not only secured Three, but also cleared a path for rebel forces to take the southern districts once and for all. Not only did the engagement eliminate a large contingent of Peacekeepers; it also served its intended purpose of completely demoralizing the remainder. Reports are coming in that Peacekeeper desertions are at an all-time high, and there have been many instances so far of Peacekeepers and even entire units defecting to our side; Lyme and Paylor have been instrumental in making sure those defectors are integrated, with any false defectors being rooted-out pretty quickly. Brutus's attack has also succeeded in sowing paranoia among the Peacekeeper officers, which has reduced combat readiness further. The only places where the Peacekeeping forces have still remained fairly staunch are the Capitol, Two, and Twelve, the latter of which is now completely fortified.

In the meantime, with the help of Boggs and occasionally the other commanders, I'm still working out the alliance details with Porus. Despite obviously being the self-appointed leader of the Rebellion, Coin has refused to show her face here, which has been perfectly fine with the Commandant; though it's clear that she's starting to have some contempt for the president. Porus tells me that she's not making an alliance with Thirteen, but with the Rebellion; since I have been the one who initiated the dialogue, it supposedly makes sense for me to be the one she formalizes the agreement with. So with that, I'm staying here until everything gets taken care of.

Thing is, I'm not exactly complaining. Sure, Central's overall mentality is more than a bit on the disturbing side. However, community still retains its welcoming and low-key atmosphere, which makes it easy to fit in and get along with most of the folk here; at least, much more than in Thirteen. Also, I hate being underground, and the food's actually food here.

In the meantime, I spend most of my time in the library; yeah, big surprise. The place is massive, with an ornate main atrium at front; in the middle is a bronze statue of a naked man seemingly deep in thought. On top of the usual sets of books and journals, there's more than a lot of stuff from way back in the pre-Cataclysm era; there's even a "Special Collections" room that has books and manuscripts as old as a millennium. Parts of the library are also an extensive natural history museum and art gallery, the latter to my extreme delight. The gallery contains works and artifacts from practically the beginning of human civilization to right before the Cataclysm and up through Panem's history, including recent pieces from local artists and artisans. There are other museums scattered throughout the community as well.

And everything on display is merely a fraction of what Central holds.

Because it's turns out that while the Archives may be headquartered at the Capitol, it's in this community where all the physical collections have been entrusted. Even the stuff exhibited in Capitol museums is brought back here when it's rotated out and no longer on display.

The best thing is that the library and museums are not sealed off from the populace; back home, the pitiful library's stowed away in the Justice Building, and there needs to have permission from Command to access the already-censored collection in Thirteen. The idea of being able to read a book or look at art seems like such a trivial thing to be concerned about, compared to things like the Games and starvation, but it's still pretty important the more I think about it. One really can't have a free society without the ability to learn freely.

The one difference between my time spent in the library in Thirteen and this one is that now I'm no longer just working. 

Some of the locals, being aware of my habits as an artist, ended up pointing me to a shop that actually sells art supplies. So now loaded with a set of actual art materials, I spend a good chunk of time in the gallery to get some inspiration; it actually helps in relieving a lot of stress I've having lately and clears my head for when it actually comes time to work. Beetee has been helpful in that regard by showing to me some very old scientific books with beautiful illustrations. They not only show me what's possibly beyond our borders but also make me think back to the book I helped illustrate barely a year ago…

Gale's also been forcing me to "broaden my horizons" and not be "all work" — _like he should talk_ — when it comes to reading. So he's having me supplement my Hobbes, Locke, Descartes, Paine, and Madison with the likes of Verne, Heinlein, and Tolkien. The hunter even has me frequently join him in the readings to his siblings.

On the subject of Gale, he's been quick to get an outdoors permit, and he goes out to hunt whenever he can. Except now, it's no longer to keep his family alive but because he enjoys doing so. The fact that he no longer does this to survive, along with the quotas put in place by Central's conservation office and the presence of competition, means that he's been way more selective about what he brings back to haggle in the marketplace or stock in the kitchen. It's has been enough to add a little extra money towards the account, with enough time to spare for him to hang out with his family.

One thing that's clear is that the rest of the Hawthornes love it here.

With the flush income, Hazelle has finally caved to settle down and focus all of her energy on the kids; even though most are at school, Beth's still too young to not get constant attention. Though to justify being hooked-up to Beetee's account, she's practically become the housekeeper for our quarters and help prepare a few of the nightly dinners; dinners that, by custom, aren't just for the floor's residents but include the Commandant, her kids, and Luce's friends as well.

It didn't take long for the younger boys not only to settle into school and make friends, but take to the Scouting program as well. In spite of Hazelle's disapproval, Rory's especially been hooked on the defense portion of the program; on top of the hero-worship of his older brother, he's been enamored with the Corps ever since the Siege. I wouldn't be surprised if he comes home with a bunch of tattoos, even though a few stern scowls from his mother have been enough to keep such thoughts at bay… for now.

Posy just seems to fit in anywhere. I don't think there has been anyone here who she hasn't worked into their hearts; she even got Edwen to not curse around her.

Case-in-point about Posy's charisma: one afternoon, I was joining the Hawthrones for a picnic. Posy's attention was caught by… okay the best way to describe the animal is that it's a beaver with the face of a duck; it actually took Beetee bringing out an old book to convince me that it wasn't a mutt. Anyways, as the thing waddled along the stream bank, the young girl was enamored and decided to give pursuit with the intent of cuddling it. Right before she could get her hands on the thing, a Guardian who was passing by freaked out and quickly picked her up. It turns out that funny little creature contains a venom which causes severe crippling pain that's not even able to be dulled by morphling; of course the folks here found a way to weaponize it. Despite that information, Posy began bawling about how she still wanted to pet the "fluffy duck"; that caused the guy to actually go out to catch a female, which lacks the venom, for her to play with until it was time for us to leave.

That girl's definitely going to be dangerous when she grows up. Though Hazelle has so far resisted her requests to get her hair colored ever since Luce showed his hair trick to her.

On a very positive note, Posy's presence does seem to have some therapeutic quality to the other victors.

In general, the victors have fit in just as well.

It was unfortunately impossible to restore Finnick's face to normal. They have skin grafts, but the underlying tissue was destroyed to the point that the end result of trying to make it "natural" would have probably been extremely unsettling; the only thing they could fix was the scar at the corner of his mouth. Also, without eyelids, it would be impossible for him to have an organic eye and just as unsettling to have an exposed eyeball anyways. So what they did instead was dispense with any pretense and graft a mask to the left side of his face; they actually cut some tissue out at the edges so that it would fit better.

I'll admit that the mask, with its dark burnished-metal, still gives a bit of an unnerving quality as it makes him look part-machine, which is pretty much what he is now. Not helping is his new robotic eye, which is hidden behind a dark patch-like window. To top things off, for a while the eye emitted an eerie red glow; it turned out that he just had it installed for the sake of purposely freaking us out and has fortunately kept it off since the reveal. Besides the new eye, the mask also covers his stump of an ear to assist him in hearing; it actually has a communicator built in so that he can receive transmissions if he so desires.

Another thing that's unfortunately been irreversible is his Avoxing. He has been given a tongue-like prosthetic that helps him taste and swallow, but it's useless to form sounds; the same goes for his damaged vocal chords. While he has still so far refused to get a speech synthesizer, his stance on the matter doesn't seem be as firm after he actually heard them functioning.

Annie and Finnick are practically inseparable now that they've been reunited; the only time they are not together is whenever Finnick helps with the fishing crew — he also doesn't want to be a burden — or Annie talks about who-knows-what with Intelligence. The two spend most of their time around the inland sea, especially in the spot that's most similar to their home, with its tall conifers, rocky pool-dotted shores, and chilly underwater forests of kelp. Many times, they just sit on the dock, but once Finnick got his strength back, they've been out swimming. Many times, they are accompanied by the local dolphins, seals, and sea otters; apparently not necessarily mutts but still modified slightly for increased mental capacity, especially the dolphins. I don't know how, but the inquisitive and playful creatures have actually helped Finnick a lot in his emotional recovery. As evident with his light-based prank, it does seem that he's slowly but surely getting better.

In contrast to Finnick, Johanna did not need that much physical therapy; though like me, she's waiting for a prosthetic. Fortunately, the people here haven't been offended by her abrasive nature. However, despite her bravado, it's clear she has scars. That bravado falters whenever she comes into comes into contact with water — to the point of her taking a while to be able to to shower — due to the torture she's endured; somehow, even though he suffered the same torture and worse, Finnick hasn't obtained the same aversion. In any case, Annie and Finnick aren't half-assing their attempts at re-acclimatizing Johanna to water, and they have her accompany them with their trips to the sea.

For whatever reason, Brutus and Luce have also been hanging out with the three victors — apparently, the Corpsman has at least met Finnick during a few of the latter's visits — even if Johanna does needle the operative about his name; I shudder to think of what could happen if Seven victor meets the ginger mutt scientist.

Haymitch and Chaff, unsurprisingly, mostly stay at Leonidas' pub. When I approached them about Rebellion duties, they both just replied along the lines of, "Looks like you got this under control for now; we'll be ready when it comes time for you to get back in the field. Until then, let us drink." Considering their personalities, I'm just as unsurprised that they get along with the pub's owner.

All in all… it's nice being here.

It'd be nicer if Katniss were present.

~oOo~

 _I guess that's it._ We're about ready to formalize our alliance.

Porus and I stand facing each other at the Tower's rooftop garden this fine late afternoon. The audience gathered includes all of Central's military and civilian officials, as well as Commanders Boggs and Paylor; Lyme would come but is currently tied up with the intensified fighting in Two. Also present are Haymitch and Leonidas, who are serving as witnesses from our respective factions, and Pollux, who's recording everything.

Between me and the Commandant lies the finished document. In it are statements detailing things such as safe passage, allocation of resources, the utilization of troops, compensation, and so on.

Just for the sake of formality, we both agree to not take things personal if an unspecified safeguard is put in place just in case one of us doesn't live up to the bargain or decides screw the other over; of course, both of us also have an unspoken "I'd like to see you try" statement about such a promise. Besides, there's mutual agreement that breaking promises and screwing somebody over is something only the most pitiful individual does. _Right, Haymitch?_

We each sign the agreement and add our thumbprints along with the date; our witnesses follow suit under our respective names. By the day's end, it's going to be sitting framed in the main hall.

Now comes the part that I'm really not looking forward to. Central's idea of sealing the deal is to do so over a drink. Leonidas sets in front of us a silver tray bearing two small stemmed egg-shaped glasses and a crystal decanter; inside the decanter is a golden liquid. They call it a metheglin, but all that really matters is that the drink is mead-based. And considering what they make their mead out of…

My mind, which has had enough experiences with tracker jackers, is screaming at me to flee from that as fast as possible. But an agreement is an agreement.

As the host, and also because I have no clue how to do this, Porus initiates the ritual picking up the decanter and filling my glass halfway. After she sets the decanter down, I mimic the process with her glass.

Now it comes to the final part. We both simultaneously raise our glasses in preparation for downing it in one gulp. From here, the liquid looks so innocuous, even beautiful as it shimmers in the setting sunlight. As I bring up to my lips, I breathe in the vapors; lavender and chamomile dominate with a hint of rosemary and a deep scent of honey in the background. I guess that something that looks this pretty and smells this good must be pretty decent.

_Here goes nothing._

That wonderful sweet floral scent is a filthy liar that lies. The liquid sears my tongue and throat as it goes down. I really don't care that my eyes are watering; it takes everything I have not to scrunch up my face and start coughing and sputtering. At the very least, I think I manage to get through this without making a mess of myself; Porus makes no indication that I screwed this up. And besides the usual burn that comes with drinking booze, that wasn't too bad.

So just like that, our agreement has been set in stone.

It's not until I'm mingling with everybody that the drink starts to take effect. It's fairly subtle. At first everything looks a bit brighter, and then it starts to gain a shiny sheen to it. Okay, I'll admit that it looks kinda pretty. That's when I decide to look at the sunset.

As usual, it's a beautiful sight to behold. Then the colors start becoming a bit too bright and saturated. As they begin to wobble and blend together, the sky juxtaposed with the autumn forest makes it looks like the whole landscape is on fire.

The scene makes me hearken back to something Katniss mentioned Snow telling her before our tour:

"… _you have provided a spark, that left unattended, may grow into an inferno that destroys all of Panem."_

Great, now it's actually starting to scare the crap out of me. Just when things couldn't get any more messed up, I turn around to see that _he's_ shown up.

Cato's waving enthusiastically at me from the crowd. At least he's in his interview suit and not the tribute gear he usually wears; that would've just been poor form. However, he neglected the fact that his face is in the post-mutt-attack state.

_Yep… I think that commenting on the fashion sense of a figment of my imagination means that it's about time I make my departure._

"Is there anything else that needs to be taken care of?" I ask the Commandant. With the sun at her back, Porus seems to be cast ever deeper in shadow, making her look even more intimidating than before.

She also doesn't bother making any pretense about what this is about. "The first drink is always the worst. No, there isn't anything else we need to cover. Before you likely go to bed, I suggest drinking some water."

"Appreciated." _Crap, words are already coming out a bit thickly._

To my credit, I make it to the elevator without stumbling or weaving; at least, I think I do. I even find the energy to smile and wave at everybody as I get in. Once the doors shut, I lean against the glass and try not to look outside.

"Nice job out there," chirps Cato.

"Thanks. By the way, your face is slipping."

"Ah, sorry about that." Like that, his face is no longer torn off and dripping blood from the eye socket. He might as well just come out of prep. "So… you ready for what comes next?"

Oh. Right.

Now I get to go to Two. This is going to be so much fun…

Not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter is pretty much just info-dumpy fluff just to check on the state of everybody.
> 
> Those who are familiar with art from antiquity should recognize the significance of Arezzo's name and appearance. I shouldn't have to explain what the fluffy duck is.


	25. Nutty at the Nut

As I sit in wait on the steps of District Two's Justice Building, I survey the devastation before me. Gale's plan has worked just like a charm, with the Nut — as everybody has now coined the underground Peacekeeper facility — practically sealed off from the rest of the world.

A slight twinge causes me to gingerly massage the bruise left on my jaw.

I was one of those people who thought that Gale's plan was a bit on the heartless side. We argued back and forth about the merits and drawbacks of such a ruthless plan. He told me that I didn't object to Central's practical massacre of the Peacekeeper forces; I countered that all of Central's targets were purely military, while the Nut contains a few civilians; he counter-countered that those "civilians" were complicit in the function of the Peacekeepers; back and forth. The final straw came when I reminded him that as to the similarity of his plan to a coal mine collapse; by doing so, I apparently crossed a line, and Gale's fist told me exactly what he thought of a "townie playing the coal miner card".

To be fair, an offer to surrender was given, and Gale organized the plan in a way that allows key exits unobstructed so that any sort of exodus from the facility would be possible but done in a high security environment. Other than that, he hasn't talked to me since.

To my surprise, Luce and Joseph arrived yesterday with my new leg to install after this nasty business, as well as a new headset so that I can talk with Haymitch — he's staying in Central to help keep an eye on the younger victors… and probably to drink — and the two guys; it hooks into both ears with the dual purpose of hearing protection and communication. Supposedly they also brought over some type of non-lethal crowd-suppression device; if I find myself in over my head, I can tell them to deploy it… whatever it is.

The screeching of the Nut's trains into the station puts a halt to my own train of thought. Once the transport doors open, the situation is complete chaos: thick smoke, frenzied running, random shooting, and injuries… It's like the hospital in Eight and a coal mine explosion decided to fornicate, with this as their horrific offspring. And from that mess, a young Peacekeeper — he has to be around Gale's age, give or take a couple years — stumbles ahead of the crowd to collapse before me; right then and there, despite this war and despite his tattered white uniform, all I see is an injured human being.

However, as I motion for the rebels to hold their fire and trot towards the guy, he responds by hauling himself up to aim a gun in my direction.

In response to being at the wrong end of a barrel, I immediately stop in my tracks and hold my hands up in placation. "Whoah… I'm unarmed. See?" For emphasis I slowly set my cane down on the ground; I do the same with my knife after pulling it out using just my thumb and index finger. "So why don't we just talk this out like ge—"

"Why don't _you_ give me a reason not to shoot right now?"

The question growled by this broken shell of a man pulls me up short, and I just stand here to stare at him while trying to formulate a response. I mean, the question is straightforward enough. Thus, naturally, the proper course of action would be to provide a well thought-out response to reason with the guy; within the proper time frame of course. Simple.

So, do I do that?

Nope.

Instead, I laugh.

I don't know where it comes from. Nothing about this situation is funny. Yet for some reason, that simple query uttered in a state of fear, desperation, and hatred causes something inside of me to snap.

It starts off with a soft chuckle as I focus on nothing in particular. However, in spite of myself, that chuckle snowballs into full-blown laughter no matter how much I try to stem the flow.

_Can't stop… I can't… I—Aw, fuck it._

That's when I stop resisting and learn to embrace the crazy. Soon, the noises emanating from my lungs no longer sound like they belong to me. Hell, they hardly sound human.

"Ah, dammit," Haymitch groans. "Of all the times for you to lose it again, _of course_ it has to be now…"

At the very least, I do have enough sense to turn off the microphone. Granted, there's probably some entertainment value to be had in this.

_People of Panem… now presenting the face of the Rebellion: Peeta Mellark, Nutcase Extraordinaire!_

_Heh… Nutcase at the Nut…_

The whole idea of the Rebellion's publicity resting on the loony kid causes the laughter to ratchet up several notches, and I collapse down to my hands and knees in the process. Tears stream down my face as my lungs are set on fire and my body feels like it is about to tear itself apart. Yet I don't stop; I revel in the pain.

_We're soo screwed as a species…_

I do maintain enough sense of surrounding to keep in mind the guy I was supposed to talk to. While the Peacekeeper doesn't take his hands off the gun, he does lower it while gazing upon me with some level of bemusement and confusion; his injuries and anger seem to be forgotten in light of the scene unfolding before him. Once I begin to calm down, he tentatively asks, "Are… are you alright?"

The sheer ridiculousness of my potential killer asking about my well-being sends me careening over the edge into another fit of the giggles. This enemy soldier is showing more concern for me than the self-proclaimed leader of the Rebellion has ever given.

_Oh irony, you unpredictable bitch._

"You…" I wheeze between titters as I wag my finger in his direction, "you're… you're a very funny guy." This seems to make the poor Peacekeeper even more confused. If I continue on like this, I think he's going to end up dying from an existential crisis, if his injuries or one of our bullets doesn't take him out first. "I've… never felt better."

When I manage to recover enough to speak coherently, I decide to get some feedback from my mentor. "Hey, Haymitch?"

"What?" _Somebody's in a surly mood._

"Aw… don't be like that. This is a time to celebrate and shit. Anyways, who's able to listen to me right now?"

"Ever since you turned your mic off? Just me and those guys from Cent—"

"Mellark, the hell are you doing?" So _now_ he wants to talk to me.

"Oh, and I guess Hawthorne now."

"But this isn't being broadcast, right?" I ask. _Like to Thirteen…_

"Nope," Luce chimes in. "Just you, and whoever is next to us or your mentor."

"Excellent!"

Gale's undeterred. "I asked yo—"

"No time to chat, guys; I'm entertaining somebody right now. Anyways," I say with a smile as I turn back to the ragged Peacekeeper who is back to pointing his gun at me, "before you decide to shoot me or whatever: let's have a little chat."

While he doesn't remove his gun from me, I don't find myself riddled with bullets either. So I take that as a cue to continue cheerfully on: "So back to your question: what reason do I have for you not to kill me? Well, if you're expecting me to plead for my life, you might as well pull that trigger."

"WHAT?" every single person hooked on the communicator yells out simultaneously. I ignore them to keep my focus on the broken guy listening to me.

"We're going to have a little recap. Trust me, you'll get a kick out of it. So let's see…" I begin ticking things off my fingers. "As a victor, the Games have now been entrenched in my mind. We've been paraded around in front of the Capitol to satisfy their warped whims. The love of my life is held captive, along with her family, and _impregnated_ by the tyrant who calls himself president. At the same time some of my friends had… _things_ done to them. The majority of my direct family was executed just because they were related to me; not to mention my mother's kind parting words. I've seen and experienced things no decent person should see throughout the course of this war. My version of an accomplishment is allying with a dangerous community of lunatics—no offense, guys."

"None taken," Luce chirps idly at exactly the same time Joseph growls, "Fuck off, Mellark."

I have to keep the giggles as a minimum as I get to my next point. "And you're going to looove this one. It's a bit of a secret; can you keep a secret?" Before the Peacekeeper can answer, I lean forward and mock-whisper, "I really don't think Alma Coin likes me.

"Oh, and apparently people on your side hate my guts. So in the end, I'm not really in a so-much-to-live-for mood right now.

"Now to you: what do you hope to gain by killing me?" I ask while plopping down to get comfortable. "I'm not a combatant gunning for you this instant, and at this point, my death is probably going to be bigger fuel for martyrdom than demoralization."

"At least I'll go with honor," he states.

"Ah…" I nod in understanding, "honor. So, how long do you think that will last?"

More confusion. "What?"

"How long do you think the honor that you bring will last?"

"It…"

"Because here's the thing: It's evident that the rebels pretty much have this district secured. Once you kill me, your action will be celebrated for about as long as it takes to win this war. Afterwards, once the new government starts making its history books, you will no longer be known as the honorable Peacekeeper who struck down the symbol of the Rebellion in a final act of defiance; you will be known as the monster who murdered an unarmed boy who was just trying to talk. And your sympathizers will be labeled lunatics even by the people in your district. Don't believe me? Just look to history to see how quickly popular opinion can turn." I pause my lecture a bit before adding with a chirp, "Also, shooting someone who isn't resisting is kind of a dick move in general, and dick moves don't really sound that honorable. Am I right?"

It's clear the Peacekeeper's gears are turning, but I still add, "By the way: do you have any loved ones left?"

He hesitantly nods. "Last I heard, my family's safe."

"Well if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you a little question: once I die, what do you think will happen to your family? You think your honor's going to protect them?"

The query has its effect on the young man, who instantly flinches as if scalded, and the gun begins to waver as a mixture of fear and anger mixes with uncertainty and fatigue.

But I keep going: "By the way, what's your name?"

That question also seems to make him even more confused. "Marcus. Marcus Wilson."

"Well, Marcus, you look pretty tired; have you made a decision yet?"

Uncertainty now dominates, but the gun doesn't drop, even though his finger is completely off the trigger. The sight just causes me to release a flustered huff of air and gently tut, "Welp, it seems I'll have to make the decision for you."

Before Marcus knows what's happening, I lunge forward and press my forehead right up against the muzzle of his gun. Squawks of protest and dismay fill my earpiece, and the Peacekeeper himself looks completely freaked out. "W-what are you doing?"

"I'm helping you make a decision." I chirp with a grin. He tries to pull the gun away, but I'm much stronger as I grab the barrel and keep it firmly fixed in place. "Oh, no you don't. I'm not letting you waffle out of this one."

By now, Gale's losing it completely. "Peeta, s-stop… You don't have to do this. Don't do this! Please stop!"

"Gale, stay out of this."

"You can't—"

"I SAID STAY OUT!"

Haymitch, on the other hand, remains completely silent. So I hail him: "Hey, Haymitch?"  

"Yeah?" He sounds just as collected, which is just what I'm looking for.

"Do you think you can record a statement?" I'm starting to have to raise my voice over Gale's inarticulate howls of… I really don't know what at this point.

"Sure thing."

I make direct eye contact with Marcus and briefly turn my mic on to say, "That whatever happens, the family of Marcus Wilson is to remain safe and secure." The Peacekeeper's eyes go wide.

"Done. Good luck, boy."

"HOW CAN YOU ALL REMAIN CALM?" screams Gale.

"Aw, shut up and watch, Hawthorne."

"So… how does that sound?" I ask Marcus as I turn the mic back off. "Your family will be safe from any form of retribution should you choose to put a bullet in my brain."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch at all. I'm giving you free reign to kill me. I'm even helping keep your aim steady right now. I mean you probably won't survive it, but I have the feeling that wasn't your intention from the very beginning." The gun is pressed against my head so hard that I can feel it cutting into my skin. "So what are you waiting for? Come on. Just pull that trigger and watch my head split open."

"I…"

"Though I'd probably recommend closing your eyes as well; flying skull fragments can be a quite painful and messy."

Blood slowly trickles down past my eye as I maintain a steady stare at the increasingly nervous Peacekeeper.

"Again, what are you waiting for? This is what you want, isn't it? Be a good little Capitol puppet and fire."

"I'm not a puppet." He tries to bolster his words with a defiant tone, but the crack in his voice sort of undermines that.

"Then why do you want to kill me?"

"Because…"

"If you truly in your heart consider me a dangerous person, why am I not dead right now?

"I—"

"Oh, and didn't I already tell you to shoot?" When he doesn't respond, I finally roar, "I SAID SHOOT!"

And like that, something inside him finally breaks. "I-I can't…"

Marcus finally lets go of his firearm, which I set down on the ground to prevent an accidental discharge, and crumples to the ground with a sob as the last reserves of his energy are expended.

I give him a small smile and say, "I know. I wouldn't wish you to."

The Peacekeeper looks confused again as he looks up at me. "I thought you said—"

"Oh, I meant everything I said; though I do have to mention that there is still some motivation for me to go on. My point is that I wouldn't wish your last thoughts to be about my blood on your hands," I explain. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to say a few things."

I stand back up and turn on my microphone to address the crowd, which has been viewing the entire exchange like a herd of spooked deer.

"I'm sorry this had to happen. Don't get me wrong; I'm not going to say this wasn't necessary or make any apologies for the Rebellion coming here. I just… wish that it didn't have to come to this. I wish it didn't have to come to not only district going against district, but friend against friend as I have seen happening in District Two." As I speak, I gesture towards the Nut and crowd before it. "I know that being the district of Careers and Peacekeepers has allowed you to live a bit more comfortably, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt as to not knowing what the conditions of the other districts are. But I still want you to truly ask yourselves whether the Capitol deserves your loyalty.

"What honor is there to purposefully send your kids to kill other kids for the sake of satisfying the lust for entertainment among the pampered elite, with the desirable survivors viewed as nothing more than living toys to be passed around?

"What honor is there in sending your young men and women to repress less fortunate districts just so that those in the Capitol can keep on gorging themselves? Sure you get a bigger portion than everybody else, but it's because the Capitol decides that you get a bigger portion. Do you enjoy the Capitol deciding what you need or know? Are you all people or merely attack dogs?

"And what honor is there to send those same young soldiers out there to fight for a city that doesn't even bother getting its hands even a bit dirty. While you are still coughing out the dust from your lungs, I'm betting that the people in the Capitol are simply wondering what the new fashion trend is today. Again, what has the Capitol done to make you owe it your children's lives?

"And for the rest of you," I gaze at nobody in particular to address the rebels, "how many of you viewed these folk as subhuman monsters to be exterminated, instead of people on another side of a conflict; I'll bet they saw you in the same light.

"Again, I have no illusions about the necessity of the fight, and sometimes really tough calls need to be made. What I'm instead saying that I think of this Rebellion just as much forging a new beginning as it is overthrowing tyranny. And for that new beginning to be possible there has to be some forgiveness."

To everyone: "In the end, think very carefully about who the real enemy is."

I look back down at Marcus, who has been paying attention the entire time, despite looking like he's about to pass out any moment now. The sight causes me to pull out a handkerchief as I walk back over to him.

"You're bleeding pretty bad, let me get tha-AACK!"

Of course my leg has to give out at this moment while I'm broadcasted on TV. It doesn't help that I had laid my cane down, which leaves me with nothing to lean on other than a guy who doesn't have any energy left in him.

As I stumble forward and in a desperate attempt at stabilization to keep myself from falling flat on my face, something ruffles my hair for an instant.

Less than a second later, the pavement cracks behind me as a sharp report echoes in the crisp autumn air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, like the bombing in Eight, this is a bit close to canon, though I hope it's diverged enough.
> 
> Do I ever tire of Peeta in a batshit crazy state? Is it smart to take a vacation in Mogadishu?


	26. Safe Now

As the echo of the gunshot dissipates, I immediately gaze down at Marcus, who looks between me, his gun, and his hands with a fearful expression of disbelief before quickly shaking his head.

"Don't worry; I know it's not you." At my words, the Peacekeeper seems to relax and breathes a sigh of relief.

The gunshot has a different effect on the crowd. To put things simply… everybody immediately goes berserk. From the rapid reaction, it's as if there has always been a reaction just waiting to be set in motion. Actually, the more I think about it, the less I'm surprised; this is probably the entire District Two campaign boiled down to a single event.

I watch in horrified fascination one part of the crowd turns into a violent mob, which uses everything at its disposal — bars of metal, various weapons, their own hands… — as they descend upon the other part, many of whom are taken by surprise before fighting back. The irony is that I remember seeing everybody helping each other out during the evacuation. Either that wasn't enough to atone for possible past misdeeds, or everyone has simply whipped themselves into such a frenzy that they really don't care and simply want to hurt something.

During all of this, the rebel soldiers just sit back and watch the events unfold as if it were just a show on TV. It makes sense: why intervene to help their enemies when somebody else is doing their job for them?

The whole scene still causes me to shake my head in disgust, especially when I see what the group that's currently hunkering down in fear is mainly comprised of. _This isn't right…_

So I quickly talk into the communicator: "Guys, you said you have a crowd suppression device; can you use it now?"

"I could… But seeing that I'm a 'lunatic', I don't think I will," answers Joseph. _Aw, crap…_

"Really? _Really?_ You're going to harp about that now?" I can't help but throw my hands up in frustration.

"Our mission is to provide assistance towards the Rebellion. I see neither you nor any other rebel being under danger from this crowd. All I see are Capitol lackeys beaten to a pulp."

"Well, all I see is a crazy mob being driven by bloodlust. And why am I just talking to you?" Someone else should be more willing to listen. "Luce, can't you see that this has gone on long enough?"

"I'm sorry, Peeta, but he's the one in charge here." To his credit, the Corpsman does sound apologetic. "Come on, Joe. I know you hate Peacekeepers, but it shouldn't be hard to make exceptions now and then."

"Not until Mellark says the magic word."

At that moment, a man rushes towards Marcus with a piece of rebar and obvious intent to cause bodily harm. Without thinking, I quickly snatch up my cane, position myself between the assailant and the incapacitated Peacekeeper, and hold the cane in front to block the blow. _Thanks Beetee…_

As I push the surprised miner back and send him tumbling away, I find that my patience has reached its limit.

"Listen up Ramire," I growl, "I know you don't like me, and that's fine. But there are kids and wounded in this mess!"

At my statement, Luce's previous state of calm seems to evaporate: "There are WHAT there?" Actually, he sounds pretty angry right now

"You heard me. That's why, if Ramire doesn't turn immediately turn on his little gadget, I'm going to come over there and shove this cane so far up his ass, he'll be shitting circuits for the rest of his life. So please, pretty please with sugar on top… activate the fucking device!"

"Acknowledged." I don't miss that Joseph no longer sounds that smug either. "By the way, is your headset secure?"

I frown a bit as I try to decipher his question. "I think so. Why-AAAHH!"

My hands immediately go to my ears as this terrible screeching noise fills the air. The closest thing I could compare it with is a swarm of cicadas residing within an alarm siren, with some menacing low undertone reverberating underneath; except even that would likely sound like a soft lullaby compared to this. And as each second passes, the intensity of the attack just increases some more. The whole time, besides the pain from the sound itself, I have to resists the waves of nausea that roll over me.

However, as horrible as I am feeling, it's clear that my headphones are blocking out the worst of it. I'm still fairly aware of my surroundings and able to maintain enough composure to remain standing. The same can't be said for everybody else.

As promised, the sound is causing everybody to stop what they are doing, and it doesn't seem to be lethal; though the latter's a cruel mercy. Pretty soon, all the people — rebel, Peacekeeper, and civilian alike — in the square fall to the ground and either writhe around in pain or curl into a fetal ball as they expel their last meal. With many folks, bladders and bowels are released as well.

After what feels like an eternity, the noise finally winds down until nothing can be heard.

"Looks like this field test has been a success," Joseph remarks, with his smugness returned in full force.

I want to retort, but right now I'm just lucky to keep my stomach contents where they belong.

Even at least a minute after that, nobody gets up from the ground. As I regain my composure, I look back behind myself to see reinforcements rapidly coming down the steps with the purpose of bolstering the now-unmanned defenses.

Once I feel that everybody has regained enough of their wits to listen, I theatrically clear my throat before putting my smile back on and saying, "It seems that some weren't paying attention the first time. So let's try this again, shall we?"

~oOo~

"Peeta. Mellark. You. Are. Such. A. Fucking. Moron!"

It seems that Gale's current chosen way of greeting me, as I hobble back into the Justice Building, is to tackle and pin me to the ground so that he could begin whaling on me with each punch punctuating a word in his high-volume rant. I think I'm going to be covered in bruises by the time this mission is over. Well… at least he isn't punching me in the face again.

When he finally pauses for breath, I can't help but note, "You still can't deny that my method worked."

Instead of calming Gale down, it just causes his face to contort in fury as he utters something between a roar and a wail. However, before the hunter can present me with another beatdown, I throw him off of me. As Gale lands on his back, the air is knocked out of his lungs, stunning him enough to give me an opening to apply a full nelson.

While he struggles quite a bit, he fails to break out of my hold and finally stops lashing out; though it's evident that there's still enough energy and tension there to allow him to break out should I let my guard down. I see Luce approaching us with concern, and I know what he's intending to do; I quickly shake my head to let him know no one needs knocking out, at least not yet.

Once I'm sure that he's calmed down enough, I ask, "Alright, Gale; what's the matter?"

What I get in response is a cranky jumble of mumbled words, with only a few words and phrases able to be discerned: "… reckless… yourself in too much danger… suicidal… say things like that… damn fool… felt helpless… almost got shot… don't know what I'd do…" and so on.

Despite the fairly incoherent nature of his rant, I have a good idea what Gale's saying, and I respond accordingly: "Look, I'm sorry. But you know I had to do this. Also, by default, being a rebel is slightly hazardous to your health. Though I will admit that I was slightly reckless—"

"Very reckless."

"Okay. I was very reckless and borderline suicidal with my behavior. I should have considered how it would affect others, and it was stupid of me not to do so."

"Very."

"Don't push it," I admonish, though a slight grin forms on my face. "Anyway, I'm still sorry."

"'M sorry too…" The mumble is almost indiscernible, but I still catch it.

"For what?"

"Almost driving you away."

"You never drove me away."

"Punched you in the face."

"It's okay. Emotions were high that time," I note while ignoring what suspiciously sounds like a snuffle. "So, are we good?"

A small nod causes me to finally let go. After Gale gets up, he offers me a hand and pulls me up as well. He looks like he's about to say something but decides to hurry quickly away instead. I think he definitely went past his daily emotional limit.

A long whistle is emanated next to me before its owner states, "Well, you definitely handled that pretty well." Luce actually sounds sincere about that.

"After talking down a Peacekeeper who was originally planning on shooting me, everything else seems a bit easier."

"You didn't talk him down so much as mind-screwed him into submission. Fact." The Corpsman shakes his head. "Anyways, let's get you patched-up and a good night's rest. You're getting your new leg tomorrow."

~oOo~

I look upon the new prosthesis sitting in front of me with no small amount of trepidation. The leg that was given to me from the Capitol was a crafted in a manner so as to completely mimic the appearance of a human leg; a very shiny chrome leg, but still a leg with all the contours and such.

In contrast, this one offers no illusion as to what it is: a machine. If anything, it almost looks more insect-like than anything even closely human, with long angular armor plates for protection; though they apparently did take things into consideration so that it won't snag while I'm putting on and wearing long pants.

What's more is that I'm not supposed to wear a shoe with it. Instead the leg will automatically adjust itself to any shoe I put on my real foot. The foot itself, while vaguely foot-shaped with large cloven hoofs, seems almost birdlike due to a smaller claw jutting from the heel. At the very least, the technicians did ask me at the very beginning if I would mind that I would have an exposed mechanical foot; a year ago, I probably would have still been too self-conscious, but now… It helps that there's a nice finish on it so as to not look completely industrial.

Just so I don't have to strip down to my skivvies, I decide to wear some shorts for the operation. Once I get situated, Luce is quick to remove my leg — as silly as it sounds, and despite its faultiness and Capitol-made status, I decide to keep the thing for sentimental reasons — as well as its adapter. Once everything is set — to his chagrin, Joseph is brought in to make sure the circuits are in working order — the Corpsman gets ready to attach the new leg.

"Alright, this may feel a bit funny at first. Are you ready?"

When I nod, he sets the thing in place. Immediately I feel a very peculiar sensation similar to an electric shock quickly moving up my thigh from my knee; Luce tells me that this is the leg saying hi to the body and the body welcoming it. During this time, I can hear the locks at the end of my stump whirring into place and securing the leg. Once everything checks out, I'm told to take my first steps.

As much as I hate to admit it, it works like a charm. I only stumble for the first couple steps during the acclimate period, but before long, I'm actually walking normally. Despite its mechanical look, it's also completely silent and almost seems to give a softer footfall than my real foot; granted, the latter isn't exactly hard to achieve. To test it out further, I begin to walking around the vast hall of the Justice Building, with Luce shadowing me and making notes as he tells me to do certain tasks here and there.

As I walk past and greet Lyme, a little girl who seems no older than twelve approaches me.

"Peeta Mellark?" she asks in a timid voice.

"Yeah, that me," I say with a smile; in the process, trying to push down my distaste at someone so young being in this war. "How are—"

Before I know what's happening, Lyme's assistant yells in alarm and begins running towards the kid, who pulls something out to hold over her head.

"DEATH TO THE RE—"

The kid's scream is cut short with the two gunshots that blossom in near-instantaneous succession on her chest then between the eyes. I can only watch in shock as the body collapses to the ground. After a few seconds pass, I slowly turn to identify the gunman.

Smoke still streams out of the barrel of Luce's pistol, and my already shot nerves get frayed further when I see the expression on his face. The Corpsman looks almost unrecognizable with no trace of his usual friendly and sometimes slightly silly demeanor. Instead, his expression not only holds an air of grim professionalism but is also accompanied by a complete lack of conflict in those hardened eyes. There is one other person whom I know carries such a look.

That's when I, with a considerable chill, realize two things:

First off, for all their usual differences in personalities and outlooks, Luce is definitely his mom's son.

Secondly, I think I just found Central's safeguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The suicide bomber is how I headcanon Lyme's death in Mockingjay.


	27. Victors

The body may have been removed, and the cleaning crews may have done their job, but I swear that I can still see the blood staining the marble floor as I walk briskly past that spot. It turns out that the little girl — I don't want to know how she got her hands on the rebel uniform that got her through security — had a remote detonator and enough plastic explosive to at least bring down the main hall; worst-case scenario could have resulted in untold devastation considering how the building's perched atop a massive dam upstream from the city.

Whatever the facts, I still can't banish the image of Lyme's aide cradling the body of her little sister from my mind.

_And what kind of sick fuck sends their own child to blow themselves up?_

_Probably the same kind that thinks it's an honor to send their own child into the Hunger Games._

Sure enough, the child's confirmed as a former student of the Academy. What's more, she and her rebel sister were daughters of the Peacekeeper Generalissimus, who was holed up within in a self-sustained facility deep in the Nut. Originally, the rebels were content to let the loyalists fester until after the war's conclusion, but the incident made them decide on storming the facility despite any potential danger; indeed, a few soldiers were killed by explosive traps. At the conclusion of the skirmish, while many of the besieged were either killed in the firefight or committed suicide, quite a few were rescued from the facility and even throughout the tunnels; one of those rescued was the Generalissimus' teenage son, who was bedridden and completely delirious for some reason.

Despite a bit of good news to be had from the mission, it's things like the suicide attempt that sometimes make me wonder whether Gale is correct in Two being beyond saving. And even if it can be saved, how many more families will tear themselves apart over ideals? But then again, the fact that Careers like Lyme joined the Rebellion, and Peacekeepers like Marcus laid down their arms, gives me hope that it's possible to reason with the majority of people here.

That doesn't mean that there aren't crazies.

_Peeta Mellark: officially-sanctioned crazy bait…_

I seem to be one big collection of close-calls. The unfired bullet in my pocket — Marcus decided to give me the chambered round in his gun in some gesture of respect or something; he didn't elaborate — is testament to that. The only thing that's clear is just how close this piece of jacketed metal was to giving me a crude and impromptu brain surgery. The cracked pavement in the square was an even closer call, and the rebels are still trying to figure out where that shot came from.

At the very least, the fall of the Nut has caused the district to fold and rapidly fall into rebel control. It probably helps that most of the experienced and zealous Peacekeepers were already called to the Capitol itself when the Justice Building was taken and rebels were planning on taking the Nut. This just left Peacekeepers who were more concerned with protecting their own lives, homes, and friends. With my broadcast and Lyme's later assurances of respectful treatment, the majority are willingly surrendering as it's clear Two's now in rebel hands; only a few pockets decided on a blaze of glory. Lyme has even begun to start a careful vetting process for former Peacekeepers wishing to join to fight alongside the rebels; of course, several safeguards are put in place to prevent them turning on us later on.

This isn't to say that everything's going peachy with smooth travels from here on. There's the tiny inconvenient fact that the Capitol's defenses are going to be bolstered now more than ever due to said retreat of loyal Peacekeepers. And then there's Twelve, which has been taking in the remaining Peacekeepers that haven't surrendered or been wiped out throughout the eastern and southern districts; the rebels haven't even attempted to touch the district, with more focus placed on containment.

Now we have a new problem on our hands: Two's remaining victors. Besides the people I know personally, they're the only victors left in Panem; all the rest — not counting those who have already died before the war — have been wiped out by both Capitol and rebel forces. In Two's case, the Victors' Village has so far avoided the fight that has swamped the rest of the district. That's not to say that all of Two's victors, that survived the Quell, kept out of the fight. Obviously there's Lyme, and several ended up fighting for either the rebels or Capitol; no survivors from the latter, mainly consisting of the younger ones. However, the remainder decided to just stay out of fight entirely.

Unfortunately, it seems there are those in the Rebellion who don't like that and are planning on making them pick a side.

"I thought you folks in Two respect the victors," I tell Lyme as our transport speeds towards the Victors' Village.

"We do. These are not District Two rebels." She then looks pointedly at Boggs, who swears under his breath.

Great… so Coin is throwing another hissy fit about people not obediently falling in lockstep with her demands for obedience.

"Peeta," Boggs informs me gravely, "I think both me and my squad will have to sit this one out. There would be too much conflict of interest if we get involved. I'm sorry."

 _Dammit._ "It's alright," I mutter with a sigh. "I'll figure something out." _That, or I'll just wing it as I go along…_

_Yeah, I'll probably wing it._

When we get to the Victor's Village, we can see that there's a standoff under way between the victors and a contingent of District Thirteen soldiers. Fortunately, shots have not been fired yet, but it's anybody's guess as to how long that will last.

Before we do anything, I survey the scene with Lyme's binoculars. I can't help but compare how it looks now to how I remembered it during the Tour. The neighborhood is nestled deep in a valley. Close to the base of the valley runs a brick road, and up along one side are a substantial set of stately mansions clad in marble and granite. Between the mansions and road lies a ravine with a clear rocky stream; arching bridges connect the mansions with the road. Serving as the entrance is a massive stone-columned archway that goes over both road and ravine. Normally, the architecture, stream, trees, and snowcapped mountains in the background gives a wonderfully picturesque setting and showcases the district's prosperity. Now, however, the remaining inhabitants have used the terrain to their advantage and turned their neighborhood into a fortress.

The slopes of the valley itself are steep and treacherous enough to prevent vehicles and soldiers from attempting to flank from the side; no doubt there are traps placed all over the place just in case. The nearest mansion to the entrance has been demolished so that its rubble creates a dam for the ravine, causing the stream's level to rise — with the already cold mountain-originated water and currently chilly November air, going through the water would be a really stupid thing to do — and razor wire has been strewn across for good measure. The archway is clearly rigged with explosives and a substantial number of military vehicles are lined up, with a few tipped over on their sides, across the road to serve as a barricade. Even with the fact that Two was the Peacekeeper district, I don't know how the victors were able to get their hands on all this material.

That's not even getting into the victors; a set of trained killers that now how have modern weapons in their hands and aimed at the unit from Thirteen. Besides Lyme and Enobaria, the remaining victors are Olympia, Cinnabar, and Olivine. Olympia and Cinnabar are both middle aged and actually married — not to each other — with kids. Olivine on the other hand is in her early twenties, making her the youngest victor from Two left. I'm a bit disheartened to see younger individuals helping out with the defenses; at least the truly young children seem to be kept away and are all peering out of the mansions farthest back. The only person who is not taking part in the defense is Enobaria, who's just leaning back on her porch and viewing everything with an air of caution; she most likely knows about her amnesty and isn't risking getting involved.

With all this, I think back to some of the things various individuals have requested of me.

" _Well don't lose sight of that principle."_

" _If you have as much influence as I think you do, please try your best to prevent something like this from happening again."_

" _Keep them safe."_

With that, Cato's words finally make sense, and I know what must be done.

After a quick overview of my plan — some of the guys nearly throw a fit before finally agreeing, though I'm not going to name any names… *cough*Gale*cough* — I make it a point to stand between the victors and soldiers before yelling out a demand to see the commanding officer; the rest of my group stands off to the side at my insistence, though Castor and Pollux immediately start filming.

Simms, the officer in charge, initially refuses to come out by citing that the victors can't be trusted. However, I have no intention of backing down.

"Unless you take the first shot, I doubt that these victors would gain anything from killing you. And I think they are smart and honorable enough to realize that. Am I correct?" I gesture towards the victors for confirmation.

"We don't need your help, Lover Boy!" jeers Olivine. "So why don't you—"

"Oh pipe down, Olive! We have nothing to lose by letting the boy have his say," barks a weary Olympia. For some reason, she seems to be looking at me with no small amount of approval and admiration. "And you have our word that we won't be the ones instigating any attack."

I smile and turn back towards the Thirteen contingent. "See… Besides, I myself wouldn't be standing here if there was a risk of attack from them, and I know I'm way more important target than you'll ever hope to be."

There is a collective intake of air from my group, and I can see their bemused expressions. Yeah… I'm not exactly in the mood to play nice right now.

Fortunately, my goading works, and after what seems like a quarter-of-an-hour of deliberation, Simms comes out to talk. I remember the guy from Thirteen's Command; he was a sycophantic fool who never missed the chance to be the first one to parrot Coin's thoughts and look down upon anybody who doesn't come from Thirteen. Well, it looks like he hasn't lost that trait; except this time, the president has given him a platoon to command.

"You wanted to speak with me, Soldier Mellark?" Already, he's not hesitating to utilize a condescending tone, which doesn't work so well when he keeps looking at the victors with what seems to be fear.

"Yes, I did. To put things succinctly, I'm just curious as to whether something happened in your childhood to make you so mind-numbingly stupid… or if you were simply born that way." My placid smile does not leave my face during the entire time as I watch Simms' eyes bug out and his mouth futilely attempting to form words; I don't give him a chance to respond. "I can actually feel my intelligence gradually being forced out of my brain due to the sheer overbearing nature of your idiocy.

"Because I'm still trying to figure out what prompted you embark on such a moronic plan. What did you possibly hope to gain by challenging the victors here?" I gesticulate back towards the Victors' Village for emphasis. The entire time, my team goes from bemused to downright horrified, Simms' soldiers are completely flabbergasted, and the victors look like they are about to start laughing.

To his credit, Simms recovers enough to haughtily reply, "These victors are dangerous individuals. We need to be sure of their loyalty."

"By forcing it on them? I'm not sure if you heard, but the last time victors were pressured by a government, it did not go so well…

"The victors who were pro-Capitol were already taken out. These folk here just want to be left alone. Is it too much to ask?"

"If they are not with us…"

"Then they are the enemy? Oh please… Besides, assuming that you fail to convince them to join you, and you _will_ fail to convince them to join you, are you seriously planning on attacking them?"

"If it comes to it. Any threat is to be neutralized."

"Well, first off, it would be a threat that you created. Secondly, have you ever thought to consider the consequences to attacking a set of well-armed individuals who have been trained to be killers since they were little? Oh, I don't doubt that you will prevail in the end, but I trust that you are fully prepared to incur the casualties. And lastly, do you have any idea of how valued the victors are in this district?"

"I don't see how that is any of my concern."

"Unless you plan to hightail it back to Thirteen right after this, it will be your concern. Because you can be sure that Two will not take the unprovoked killing of their victors lightly. And between the collective force of a pissed-off District Two populace and your platoon, I'd put my money on Two.

"But… if you aren't able to comprehend that, I trust for you to comprehend this:

"I am going to stay here until your forces depart. You try something, and these guys," I point to the cameramen, "will make sure that everything is captured and broadcasted for all of Panem to see. And before you even consider it, bear in mind that they are currently transmitting to Central. So even if we by some chance 'accidentally' get caught in the crossfire, the truth will still be broadcasted."

To my great satisfaction, the officer blanches significantly. "You wouldn't dare…"

"Not if you don't. Otherwise, watch me; I'm not in a very accommodating mood right now."

A few moments pace until Simms grits out, "Have you forgotten the agreement you made when you came to our district?"

"'Peeta Mellark agrees to devote himself to the cause of the Rebellion'," I recite effortlessly. "Of course not; I was the one who wrote it. And if anything, I'm devoting my cause to the Rebellion right now, while you seem to be doing the opposite. But in case you're thinking that my devotion extends to District Thirteen specifically, I'll ask for a second opinion.

"Commander Boggs!" I call out.

"Yes, Soldier Mellark?" he replies in a cool tone.

"During the broadcast, was there any mention of District Thirteen in the agreement I made with President Coin?"

"No. The only mention is that you would be tried by the laws of the district should you fail in your duties towards the Rebellion."

"So by being here, do my actions in any way bring harm upon the cause?"

"Not unless this video goes out. In which case, I doubt you'll survive to be tried."

I turn back to Simms to see that he is fuming. "Well, there you have it from your top commander. So… what will it be? Are you going to proceed as planned, or will your forces withdraw like reasonable individuals?

"What. Will. It. Be?"

The fool actually pokes me in the sternum a couple times. "Coin will hear of this."

This time, I don't bother speaking with an air of affability. "Let her. What you tell her isn't going to be any worse than usual. Now git!"

Sure enough, they all start packing up to leave, though Simms makes it a point to go Boggs and rant at him about something. The commander takes it all passively before mentioning that he was just stating facts; he then questions if Simms' rant is the way to speak to a superior officer, which shuts the other guy up pretty quickly.

Once it's clear that the last of Simms' unit has departed, the full weight of what I just did hits me, along with the realization of possible consequences in the future.

By the time the guys walk over to me, panic has set in completely and I clutch at Gale's shoulders. "Wha-what did I just do? What did I do?"

While the hunter carefully tries to pry my hands from his collar, Haymitch comes back on line with mirthful laughter. "I think you just told Command to go shove it."

"This ain't funny!"

It takes quite a bit of willpower not to go into another freak-out. What I told Simms in the end wasn't completely true; none of my debates with Coin have ever been this bad. Worse, by questioning the practicality of the planned action in my own eloquent way, I was not just calling Simms stupid… I was doing the same to Coin. At least I managed to remove all leverage against me from that district.

"You kept us from having to fight an unnecessary battle; that's what you did."

I look over to the source of the voice to see Olympia walking over to us. While they're not yet taking down the defenses, the victors — barring Enobaria, who's still just watching everything unfold — have moved the vehicles blocking the road.

"Of course, I would like to make sure that this is not a prelude to you yourself demanding that we join your fight."

I shake my head in response to her concerns. "I'd be lying if I said that it wouldn't be nice for you folks to join. However, as long as you don't join the Capitol, I don't see why you can't live out your lives in peace."

Olympia seems satisfied with that response. "Oh, and I never got to thank you for saving my son's life." I frown a bit as I try to recollect what the older victor's talking about, so she clarifies. "At the square. You not only kept him from doing something rash and stupid; you kept that mob from harming him as well."

Now everything falls in place, including the reason she was looking at me in that manner. "You're Marcus' mom."

She nods in reply. "And I'm grateful for what you did. You made a very tough call by going out there. The same goes for what you did here. And both times, you conducted yourself quite honorably… if a bit on the crazy side."

I can't help but chortle slightly at that, and I feel a bit of the weight lifting off. "Yeah, well crazy is beginning to feel like a default setting for me."

"At least you are utilizing it in a productive manner."

_Huh… I guess I am._

"So keep that productivity up," Haymitch cuts in. "Because as long as you stay useful, Coin will have to allow you to run around doing what you do; even someone who hates you as much as her will recognize that. And if you participate in the next mission in a good enough way, she'll have no choice but to look past your flaws."

I guess he's right. There is no point in fretting over how much I tick off Thirteen's president. Besides I'm going to need to have a clear mind if I'm going to help with the next part coming up:

Getting my home district back.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going from last chapter's headcanon, with Lyme killed and Katniss out of commission, it'd be easier to take out Two's victors.


	28. Twelve

To say that retaking District Twelve is going to be a challenge is a severe understatement.

There's already the fact that all remaining loyal Peacekeeper units that have not withdrawn to the Capitol, or been eliminated, are now holed up there. The advantage is that it has allowed the rest of the districts to become easily secured. However, the extreme disadvantage is that what used to be a small mining town has become a highly-fortified military base with a disproportionately high populace of enemy units. There is the possibly of just letting it wither on the vine while the Capitol is taken; however, the possibility of that is discarded due to fears starting to arise about the possibility of them gearing up for sudden spearhead operation towards Thirteen itself, which would be exposed when resources are focused on a Capitol siege.

Not helping is the fairly mountainous terrain of the district proper, which would make any attack by land a near-suicidal feat when dealing with such an entrenched enemy, rendering such a plan unfeasible unless we're prepared incur heavy losses, which we aren't. That only leaves access by air, which already has to deal with the anti-aircraft emplacement installed. However, there is one more little caveat that is preventing us from issuing an all-out assault: the people of District Twelve.

When the whole place inside what used to be the fence — it's currently a twenty-foot-high reinforced wall with guard towers and flak turrets; even I'm slightly impressed at how quickly they put it up — has been converted into a fortress, there is the fact that the entire civilian populace is now incorporated within it. Even with most of the coal dust now washed away with the autumn rains — if there is one good thing to come out of this, it's that the mines have been shut down in place of having the people of Twelve service the fort; it turns out that Panem no longer even has any need for coal, which has unsurprisingly riled Gale up further — the simple fact is that an assault via air risk taking out District Twelve along with the Peacekeepers. And the end, the goal is to take back the district, not obliterate it.

The only thing we have going for us is that there is a strongly entrenched underground movement in place; it's actually how we've been able to get as much information as we have received. Seam, Town; none of that matters anymore — at least it's being kept on the down low — when there is the surrounding threat to be had. There is even a significant contingent of rebel Peacekeepers in their ranks, consisting of both remnants of the old guard who survived Thread's purges and many "transplants"; recent reports have shown that number of turned Peacekeepers has spiked ever since Two was secured. Their presence should help when it actually comes time to attack.

In any case, despite our lack of applied command experience, Gale and I are starting to take a more active role in the battle plan meetings here in Central; for obvious reasons, going back to Thirteen is definitely not an option right now, though I don't exactly mind. To our surprise, the commanders actually listen to us whenever we provide some input — admittedly not that much — due to our familiarity with the district, especially with Gale's hunting experience.

Granted, the meetings are more often than not fruitless. There are some things that are agreed upon: the need for the takeover to be rapid, certain weak spots in the defenses that could be exploited as entry points, spots where transport hovercraft can unload troops in, and the importance of the closest districts — Six, Eight, and Eleven — to serve as a vice and possibly a source of a triple-pronged mass attack as Thirteen comes down from the north. Otherwise, we are just going around in circles by throwing ideas forward and having them be shot down. Some plans are too reckless and would incur an inordinate number of casualties either to rebel forces or civilians. Others either have no strength behind it and are rendered completely ineffective in the long term, or rely on too many variables to ensure a victory within any plausible percentage. Fortunately, the plan — brought up just for the hell of it — to just slag Twelve is shot down unanimously.

_The whole point of this is to keep Twelve from turning into a fire… storm…_

_Wait a minute…_

That's when I get an idea.

Beetee is the first person I bring my idea to, and he seems to react in the appropriately enthusiastic manner before offering to help. Then I go to Boggs, to not only get further advice on not only how to make this logically possible and secure, but also how to fit it into the overall battle plan. With the assistance of the two, I manage to get a rough plan drawn and written up. Before long, I'm sitting in Porus' office and preparing to put forward my proposal.

"I know that I stated that there would be no need to request for your troops to be sent out. Well… I may have to ask for at least several of your combat engineers."

Thankfully, she does not react to my statement with hostility but simply leans back and muses, "I take it that you have a something to substantiate this request, or you wouldn't be standing before me right now."

Instead of saying anything, I simply show her the plan.

She barely skims through it before stating, "I'll set up a meeting."

~oOo~

"Why are we here again?" Joseph demands with a scowl. _What's his problem with me?_

"Reckon that Mellark wants our help with something." Edwen fixes his mismatched eyes on me with a disinterested air. "I'll admit being a bit surprised at the offer considering how you like to keep those pretty little 'ethics' clean."

"Let's just hear him out before jumping to conclusions," Brutus suggests.

If Gale and I weren't already here, the three youths would probably look hilariously out of place during the command meeting about to take place. Besides Paylor and Lyme, we also have another guest being broadcasted in: Plutarch. While Porus is definitely not pleased to see him, the former Gamemaker is also needed to provide his knowhow as well for this plan of mine.

When it comes time to begin the meeting, Porus gives me the floor to begin my proposal.

"Just to keep things in mind, the idea that I'm putting forward is not to be the battle plan itself, but merely a small part of it. It is my hope however, that it will assist in making the actual military element of this much easier." I turn to address the younger members of the audience. "It's clear that you're wondering why I requested your presence. Well, Beetee has been helping me with this little idea. However, while his assistance has been invaluable, there are only so many disciplines he can utilize. That's where it comes to you. Now, I know you have personal tablets on hand, so if you would bring them out please…"

Without any further ado, I have Beetee forward the appropriate files to each respective tablet.

If I had one, I would have brought a camera with me to this meeting just to record the reactions on the three combat engineers. At first, they seem to skim passively over the information and sketches given. Before long however, their eyes slowly go wide and jaws go slack with apparent disbelief as they then rapidly flip through everything and then flip back to go over the content with more attentiveness. Now and then, they would look at each other with that same expression and proceed to swap tablets to see what the other guy got.

Once it's clear that they've looked through everything, I decide to continue:

"Now I'm not forcing any of you to participate. It's just a simple request, and I came to you three first because I've already been familiar with your work. If you don't wish to, there will be no hard feelings, and I'll adjust things accordingly. So, what do you say?" When they don't reply but still gape stupidly at me, I begin to wonder if this was a good idea. "Um… I take that as —"

"YES!" the three unanimously squeal — seriously, it's not a yell or a shout that I hear but an actual collective squeal; even Joseph's synthetic voice manages to match with high-pitched response of the other two guys — in excitement.

 _Excellent…_ "Well then… What are we waiting for?

"Let's prepare to light the biggest fireworks show Panem has ever seen."

~oOo~

"A small group of fit young males — with no older than early twenties — preparing to infiltrate and help take down an enemy base while at a numerical disadvantage… This totally ain't sounding like a premise to some ridiculous production pandering to the shrieking hordes of Capitolite girls."

Naturally, Edwen has to voice his thoughts on the operation, even after agreeing to participate.

"Of course not; that'd imply that all six, instead of just five, out of our group are attractive," Luce states while looking pointedly at the young mutt-creator.

Upon the Corpsman's cheeky drift — I'm good to have Luce back with us; he was extremely subdued for a while after the… incident back in Two — Edwen narrows his eyes to shoots back, "Yeah, I reckon it ain't been easy managing as the ugly one of u—AAGH SHIT, this shit stings!"

Brutus wasn't kidding about the unpleasant nature of the disguise mask. The stuff serves as a "second skin" — it's near-impossible to dislodge by accident once applied — and actually binds into one's pores for maximum effectiveness. The sensation during that process isn't exactly comfortable to say the least; doesn't help that our bodies get waxed before it's applied.

But here we — Brutus, Gale, Edwen, Luce, Joseph, and I — are in Medical, to have this material applied for the mission; one we've been planning for a couple weeks and will be undertaking in a couple days. It's needed if we're to get into Twelve without being noticed; more so considering that Gale and I are practically household names now with a heavy price on our heads.

In general, the plan is this: Brutus, Gale, and I are going to pose as Peacekeepers. Fortunately, in Gale's case, Thirteen's training had succeeded in wearing down his Twelve accent; after some coaching, he's now able to believably pass as a guy from Two. It wasn't too hard for me to pick up mannerisms either. Luce and Edwen, on the other hand, can't mask their accents to save their own lives, and Joseph's muteness — he's going to have to go without his voice-synthesizing collar for the duration — is something that's a bit conspicuous. So they're going to be masquerading as locals; Luce is going as a townie, while Edwen and Joseph are going to be from the Seam. So with these roles come a new set of identities, with varying levels of disguise required.

My hair's already cut to Peacekeeper regulation and colored dark brown. Fortunately, I don't have to receive the same iris implants Brutus has; instead, I'm issued contacts that change my blue to a dark hazel. The mask applied to my face tans me up a notch and adds a scattering of freckles. Still not sure how unrecognizable this will make me, but Brutus — now sandy-haired and also hazel-eyed — assures me that it's amazing how much shifting hair and demeanor can disguise oneself. Besides, I'll be wearing a Peacekeeper helmet the majority of the time in the open and spending my down time with friendly faces.

Gale on the other hand, is now redheaded with brown eyes and a skin tone a shade lighter; he actually looks a lot like Darius. Besides the hair color and contacts, he also needs to go through what I now dub the "tribute treatment"; in other words, he's no longer capable of growing facial hair. The reasoning is that there's no guarantee of him being able to shave, which would result in something fairly conspicuous about a redhead that has black stubble. Turns out everybody here goes through that operation for the sake of practicality; still doesn't mean that the hunter's too pleased with it happening to him.

Edwen, Luce, and Joseph, funnily enough, really don't have that much done to their faces, other than the ginger having his hair colored black and a patch put over his new eye, the Corpsman going from his usual CMY scheme to blond and blue-eyed — they are even using my info for that — and the mute getting gray contacts and having his facial tattoo masked.

Speaking of tattoos… Besides the fact that body markings aren't exactly common in Twelve, the Chimera has now become a well-known symbol throughout Panem, and the Peacekeepers aren't likely to respond favorably to it. With that, it's now clear why Brutus is barely adorned. It turns out that he does have a tattoo, but it just consists of a set of lines along his shoulder blades, a small squiggly line down his spine, and some other lines in that general vicinity; something to show his allegiance, but nothing that can be recognized. The same can't be said for the other Central guys, who all seem to be walking canvases. While Edwen's non-Chimera stuff isn't that bad — just a whole bunch of stylized serpents — probably due to him not being here as long, Joseph and Luce apparently both have symbols that can get them in a lot of trouble.

In Joseph's case, on his back is a bow and arrow crisscrossed with a tomahawk and encircled by a horned rattlesnake. Supposedly, the tattoo is supposed to represents his pre-Cataclysm heritage — something which the Capitol tends to not approve — and the way it's arranged is too close to the Guardian's serpent encircling the citadel of Central. What Luce has in the middle of his chest is apparently even worse, though it doesn't look all that threatening. All it seems to be is an outline of a triangle overlaid over three overlapping circles; nestled in that shape is a single white dove. Whatever the symbol is, Brutus tells me that, while it's fairly obscure compared to "well-known equivalents", a potential identification by Capitol authorities would be enough to warrant a treason sentence resulting in either summary execution or an express trip to Avoxhood.

So the three guys posing as Twelve residents have the pleasure of getting second skin placed all over their upper body. Gale also has to partake considering the scars on his back from the whipping may make him stand out a bit. Granted, the chance of being in a situation where anything would normally be revealed is low, but it's a chance we shouldn't take. In contrast, Brutus and I only require the stuff to be applied on our faces.

However, that doesn't mean I don't have problems of my own to solve. The main thing is my leg. The fact remains that, for me to effectively pass as a Peacekeeper, I need to wear a Peacekeeper uniform; my one-leggedness is sort of a recognizable attribute of mine, and the current one doesn't exactly fit. So a new one's given to simulate the contours of my lower leg to fit in a boot and the rest of the uniform. Not as high-performing, but it's decent enough to allow me to move around without a hitch.

Also, I have to get a chip implanted near my shoulder blades. It's similar to the Games trackers, except that besides reading out my health condition if prompted, it also tags me as a "friendly" to mutts. Turns out that all Guardians have it in place, and Gale already had the procedure done before getting his hunter's permit.

When it finally comes time to go, the weather conditions are as favorable as possible. A storm system is moving in on the district; there is going to be a ton of cold rain and other wonderful things that thunderstorms bring. While normally the idea of going out in that would be considered pure lunacy, this storm is going to help mask our entry.

Soon, we are suited up and on the Twelve-bound hovercraft. Even with modifications, I can now understand how Peacekeeper uniforms earn Guardian contempt; they had to wear the gear at every reaping and Victory Tour. While the armor worked for its role, it's actually cumbersome and impractical in full combat — good for protecting against melee attacks, thrown objects, and the simple collective force of a crowd; not so much against any gun more powerful than a large pistol —… and it rides up in all the wrong places; that's not getting into the white scheme. The only one who's not completely uncomfortable with his uniform is Gale, albeit due to certain other modifications. The other guys look completely at ease in their civilian outfits. _Lucky bastards…_

Going along with us is the rest of the squad, the camera crew, and Haymitch. However, they're going to stay with the hovercraft during the majority of the mission; hell, Haymitch can't even bark complaints in my headset due to it's covert nature, but he still wants to come as he's still mentoring me to take back our home. The hovercraft itself has been modified to be a mobile comm station to help the various commands to transmit with their units considering that the district is practically a communications dead zone.

Even with the cloaking device in place, the hovercraft flies as far from the community as possible to avoid being detected. So instead, we land by the lake, which is far enough to keep out of range detection but close enough to be within walking distance.

The trek itself isn't that bad. Everybody here is used to hiking through the wilderness, even though the others keep giving me exasperated looks for walking too loud. Add Gale's familiarity with the terrain, and it doesn't take us long to reach home.

Both Gale and I are flabbergasted when we finally see our district in person after a long while. Even seeing all of that footage ahead of time doesn't prepare us for just how much it has changed. The walls around Eleven may be more expansive, but these are definitely more fortified, with guard towers and anti-aircraft emplacements set up all along the structure. What's more, they seem to have demolished parts of the Seam to build prefabricated high-rise tenements; probably as Peacekeeper housing. The whole thing is made all the more ominous by the storm clouds in the background.

By 1900 hours, it's sleeting heavily; which is why the next step can't come sooner enough.

"Alright," Brutus mutters as he keeps alternating between checking his watch and looking at the scenery, "power should go off any minute now."

Sure enough, the district goes pitch black, which signifies that the rebels have finally severed the connection to the Capitol. Not only is there no steady supply of power, but communications, as well as video and audio surveillance, has been rendered ineffective.

Now comes the part I'm really not looking forward to. Due to the limited time frame, we need to get through quickly; which is where Arezzo comes in. As the machine — somehow, it's been tailing us without being noticed — strides into the middle of our group, Brutus hops onto it and secures himself effortlessly before instructing me and Edwen stand on either side. A robotic tentacle uncoils from behind its shoulders and proceeds to snake around my body, binding my limbs tightly together in the process, before drawing me securely to its sides so that I'm held parallel to the ground. On the other side, the same thing is happening to Edwen.

I feel like a trussed-up hog being sent to the butcher. As locks begin fastening us in place, the hell-panther goes into a crouch and I get to muse about the decision to go in this way.

_This was a terrible ide-AAAHH!_

The last lock barely snaps shut when Arezzo springs into action. For something so massive, it moves with considerable speed and agility as it weaves between trees and approaches the wall. Before I know it, the thing takes a flying leap, grabs a ledge along the side of a guard tower, hops to the edge of the wall, and then vaults itself over — I think an unlucky Peacekeeper is taken out in the process — in one fluid motion to land somewhere in the Seam. All the while, I clamp down on the mouthpiece provided — which, of course, isn't for the sake of stifling a terrified scream; nope, no childlike scream whatsoever from this guy — and attempt to keep the last meal firmly in my digestive tract.

Once it turns into an unoccupied alley, the machine immediately, and unceremoniously, drops us two to the ground as its rider rapidly dismounts. As it heads off to pick up the other half of our team, I lean up against a wall to try and get my bearings straight.

"You alright?" Brutus asks; he doesn't even look the least bit phased.

"Nuh-never… never again…"

Within a couple minutes, it comes back with Gale and Joseph trussed to the sides and Luce riding on its back. Gale isn't as lucky as me when he's released, judging from the way he totters off to expel his stomach contents. With a pat on the side from Brutus, Arezzo runs back out into the stormy darkness and probably back over the wall.

Just in time, as the generators seem to kick on and the wall, plus the guard towers, are lit with spotlights. However, the rest of the district is still no longer lit, which means that all energy is likely focused on defending the perimeter. Just as well; that means that movement within the district should be much easier without internal surveillance being operational. Also what matters is that Twelve now is completely severed from the Capitol. At this moment, forces in Eight, Eleven, and Six should be getting the green light to begin mobilizing to come a-knocking at this community's doorstep; however, the actual attack won't commence until the signal is sent out.

We don't waste any time getting a move-on, with Gale once again in the lead. Fortunately, our destination is in an unaltered part of the Seam, which means that we aren't completely lost as to where to go.

Before, long we arrive at a small shack — like the multitude of other small shacks around this part of the district; I've sometimes got lost here before — where a man, whom I recognize as Gale's friend Thom, answers the door. At first the Seam resident narrows his eyes at the sight of three Peacekeepers and three completely foreign individuals; however, Gale doesn't hesitate in explaining the situation to the point of briefly dropping the disguise. Once that happens, Thom's eyes go wide, and he practically yanks Gale, Edwen, and Joseph into his house. The rest of us don't follow but instead begin our trek towards town.

Technically, with Gale in a Peacekeeper outfit, Thom has to let us in anyways; well, unless someone else beat us to the punch. The influx of new arrivals has completely outpaced the ability for them to construct new barracks. Hence, an order has been issued that mandates district residents to allow Peacekeepers to quarter in their homes. Incidentally, it apparently turns out that the majority of Peacekeepers going along with this are rebel-friendly types, which will likely help things down the road. It's also how we are to blend in.

Barely do we reach the edge of the Seam when an authoritative and somewhat familiar voice calls out to us:

"You two! What is a district resident doing out during curfew?"

The three of us freeze in midstride, and I notice Brutus casually rest his hand on his sidearm and Luce pull something out of his vest; it almost makes them more like my bodyguards than fellow operatives in this mission. However, when we turn around, I can hear the two Guardians let out an exhale of relief.

On the Peacekeeper's lapel is a small pin of the Capitol seal. These pins were sent ahead of us to be distributed amongst sympathetic Peacekeepers. At first glance they are completely innocuous and within regulations; besides, what better thing to do here right now than showcase one's allegiance to the Capitol? However, they all contain a small tracker marking them as friendly to both Central's sensors and mutts when the time comes.

Another thing that puts me at ease is that I already know this Peacekeeper to be sympathetic to us.

So I decide to be the one to talk to Purnia. "Oh this guy got himself lost in the Seam, so we are taking back into town. Also we're a bit new here, so we're hoping that he can find us a place to bunk."

Just in case she doesn't recognize me via my voice, I adjust the collar of my uniform; in the process, the pin on my cuff is shown in full view.

If Purnia recognizes me, she doesn't show it. All she says is, "Well I'm not sure how much use the townie is going to be if he gets lost at this late of an hour. I _do_ know that the shoemakers should have a spot available."

This can't get any better. "Well, thank you for the heads up. We'll keep that in mind."

"You're welcome. And have a good evening." As we turn to leave, she has to add one last thing. "You know… For a 'new guy', you sound awfully like you've gone native. Just saying…"

The undertone of that statement is pretty hard to miss: _"Keep your head down, you idiot."_

It doesn't take us long after to reach the shop. We barely rap on the door when one of my best friends opens it with a wide, albeit very strained, smile on her face. The moment I take my helmet off, Delly freezes and her eyes go wide with recognition.

Really, I don't expect anything less from her. Even if she weren't the most outgoing person in the district and able to identify people — doesn't matter if they're from the town or Seam, or even if they're a Peacekeeper — by name, there is the little fact that we've known each other since our years of being unable to use the toilet. So the idea of a hair dye and slight tan rendering me unrecognizable to her is something that's laughable.

However, Delly recovers and quickly hides any semblance of recognition before allowing us in; she doesn't even hesitate to admonish Luce as if he were simply an older brother who got stuck out in the rain and didn't come home in time. It's not until we get inside the house when she throws all pretense to the wind and slams into me; her arms wrapping around my body as if I'd disappear any moment now, with her the only one keeping me tethered here.

I just awkwardly pat her back in response. "Hey, um, Dell… I think you're cutting off my air supply."

She quickly pulls away to scowl at me in the face before socking me in the arm. Seriously, is there something about me that's enticing as a melee target? "What is wrong with you? Do you have an addiction to near-death situations or something?" she hisses as loud as possible without us being overheard.

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad…"

"You pressed a Peacekeeper gun against your own forehead! Even if you don't care about yourself, have you no thought as to how your actions may affect others?"

Delly's question ends up eliciting a chuckle from me. "You sound just like Gale…"

That pulls her up short. "Wait, you mean Gale Hawthorne?"

"Guy's been hovering around me like an overprotective guard dog."

The look of sheer bemusement on her face is priceless. "We're talking about the same Gale, right? Tall, broody… a bit of a hunk… goes into a fit whenever he sees you with Katniss?"

"Oh, come on, he's not that ba—"

A soft moan interrupts me and, when I look towards the source of it, the light atmosphere formed from our reunion immediately get weighted down by the horrific lantern-lit scene before me. Delly's brother lies on his belly, giving me a good view of his back, which has been torn into ribbons; there's someone else I remember looking like this and one way as to how it could occur here. However, this looks even worse as it clearly hasn't been cared for in days.

"What happened?" I whisper.

"I don't know the details. All I know is that it ended with Eli flipping Peacekeepers off and him being dragged before Thread to receive thirty lashes. With Ms. Everdeen gone, and nobody else able or willing to help him, we've had to make due for the last couple days. Peeta…" — Delly looks as if she may break down any moment now; not that I blame her — "there's a good chance that—"

"No." _I refuse to believe that._ Someone like Delly, who has stood with me through a lot of the ordeals I've gone through here, doesn't deserve to have this happen to her family as well.

I quickly summon Luce into the room; Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright follow him in. The moment he sees the injured boy on the cot, the Corpsman immediately rushes over and pulls out a small pack from his vest.

"I don't have my full kit with me, so the help I can give may be limited," Luce tells the family grimly. "However, I'll do my best. Now, let's start from the beginning…"

After a thorough explanation from everybody as to how they treated Eli as well as what resources they have on them right now, Luce begins giving out orders to the parents to prepare supplies as he examines away and carefully applies medication.

"This _was_ for the possibility of one of you guys getting hurt in the mission. But it looks like it's going to be used up on this case." The tone in Luce's voice suggests that he's much more upset about Eli's condition than he is about expending valuable medicine on something other than the mission. "So I hope you all stay out of trouble till the end," he adds good-naturedly.

The whole time, Delly sits on the other side of the cot with her brother's hand in hers. I sit right next to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

After a while, she quietly tells me, "Twelve's changed and not just in the fact that they built it up. The mines have been shut down, everyone has a job, and nobody seems to be starving anymore. That doesn't mean that life's been good here. I think Thread may actually have been legitimately going insane these past few weeks. With each broadcast from the rebels, he's been increasing restrictions and curfews, not to mention well as making punishments much more severe. It now isn't uncommon for there to be an execution a couple times per week. Sometimes, entire families would be hanged for creating 'displays of treason'.

"So we've had to be more careful lately. On the upside, more and more Peacekeepers have become disillusioned with the Head Peacekeeper's increasingly erratic behavior. Your little stunt in Two actually succeeded in swaying the fence sitters to our side. Now all that's left are the diehards. Unfortunately, they not only seem the type to go down fighting, but are also still the majority and appear to be the most experienced. At the very least, they're crazy enough that the rebel ones don't seem to be too conflicted about potentially engaging them in combat."

"Well, it'd be best that they not be conflicted, because things are going to be coming to a head very soon."

My statement causes her to look me critically in the eye. "The fight's really coming to Twelve, isn't it."

That's not a question, so I just give a wry smile back. "Well, I'm here, aren't I? And you know that wherever I go, trouble just seems to follow."

~oOo~

Delly is right in how much the district has changed. The roads are all paved, infrastructure has improved quite a bit — granted, it's hard to tell when the power's off; it's not like we aren't used to a lack of power anyways — and there's no longer that ubiquitous coating of coal dust everywhere we go, but that hasn't made the place any less depressing. People no longer mill around when outside, instead moving quickly from destination to destination to limit their time in the open. Instead of that worn-down and resigned mentality that I'm so used to, there's a perpetual state of fear that has dug its claws into the community. Underneath that fear however, there is a strong undercurrent of other emotions: anger and hatred.

The Peacekeepers seriously must not know how much they're pushing Twelve over the edge, because it's going to bite them in the ass soon… very soon.

When we were first put under new management, one of Thread's first policies was to eliminate fraternization between Peacekeepers and district residents. He likely doesn't want his soldiers to begin having sympathies for the people here like so many at the Hob did. The funny thing is that rule has currently been working to our advantage significantly. With no connection made, Peacekeepers just see Twelve resident as Twelve resident; they don't recognize any new faces, especially since the majority of Peacekeepers are new imports. Those who do recognize one extra townie, plus two new guys in the Seam, are from the old guard and thus don't let out that anything's amiss.

Despite that, and the current cramped nature of our living conditions, we mostly keep inside. The few times Brutus and I go outside, it's to survey the area and occasionally get updated on the Seam side.

After the treatments and observation, Eli's condition improves significantly and it's clear that he's going to live. However, the scarring is much more severe than if his back had been able to be treated earlier; Rory, who's been his close friend for quite some time, is probably not going to react well to this. 

Despite Brutus' protestations about the riskiness and how it's not part of the mission, Luce has also been going around to give first aid throughout the district. Most of the time it's with improvised resources, but all that matters is that this has been the first medical care since the loss of the Everdeens. Fortunately, due to the aforementioned disconnect, the Peacekeepers have not noticed something's amiss; just a "merchant with delusions of medical expertise" running around Twelve.

Officially, Purnia stops by the shop to keep her shoes nice and shiny. Unofficially, we use these sessions to keep tabs on loyal and rebellious Peacekeepers; turns out that she's the de facto leader of the latter group. Brutus tells her to forward the following notes to her soldiers: they are to stay away from the walls and towers, as well as the square during the night; on the day of the attack, they will need to find some way to distinguish themselves from loyal Peacekeepers; we can't guarantee their safety during the attack itself.

It turns out that Brutus' advice to stay away from the walls is good advice not just for the coming battle. Each night, his panther machine comes up and kills half-a-dozen or so men before running off into the woods. Search parties are sent out during the way, but they usually come back with only one or two shaken survivors; each one tells the same account of a large and vicious weasel that attacked them. In any case, these attacks are helping keeping Peacekeeper attention towards the woods and away from the district itself.

In the meantime, Brutus' smaller and more numerous machines are busy setting everything up each night. It's really the only subtle way the wall and square can be worked on without drawing notice; definitely helps that in the rainy dark, people simply dismiss them as vermin and birds. If everything goes to plan, they should be finished within the week.

Finally, one night, Arezzo shows up with a set of presents — a scoped bolt-action rifle for Luce and a couple mobile video cameras for me — before running off again, which can only mean one thing: everybody and everything is in place.

Come tomorrow night, we end this.

~oOo~

"Has anybody told you how much of a moron you are?"

I roll my eyes at Gale's query as we stroll towards the gallows; hopefully, Brutus' little helpers have done their job right these past few nights. "Actually they have. In fact, I distinctly remember you punctuating that point home with your fists."

"Well, I'm just letting you know again: you're still a moron."

"Good to know. Anything else?"

Before I start up the steps, he grabs my arm. "I'm serious. Don't get yourself killed. I swear if you do, I'll…"

"You'll… what?" I motion for him to continue.

His mouth works soundlessly before he shakes his head and releases his grip. "Just… don't get yourself killed," he repeats.

"Don't worry: it's not on my to-do list."

Looks like I'm here right on time. Curfew is just in motion and Romulus Thread is appraising his best and brightest — i.e. his ardent and most blind followers — as they stand in formation.

"HEY THREAD!" I yell out — "Moron…" Gale groans — as I take my helmet off. At this point, I've already changed my hair and eyes back; not to mention removed that aggravating second skin. In the meantime, a camera hovers right next to me.

Some of the Peacekeepers begin to point their guns in my direction, but the Head Peacekeeper nonchalantly motions for them to stand down. "Ah… traitors always come back to roost."

"I'm simply here to ask for your unconditional surrender," I cheerfully retort with a smile, even as the face of this man, who has blanketed this place with so much pain, fills me with rage. That rage keeps me from second-guessing what I'm planning on doing.

Thread doesn't seem to be impressed with my candor. "Surrender? Who do you take us for?"

Even though I know it's going to be a futile gesture, I still go through the motions of the speech. "Look around you; it's obvious that this is the last hold-out besides the Capitol itself, and you're completely surrounded. To keep on going like this is tantamount to suicide."

"Again, who do you take us for?" he sneers before turning to the rest of his men. "Peacekeepers!"

"Sir!" they unanimously respond. Joseph's collar sounds more human than them.

"What is your purpose?"

"To maintain order and protect the assets of the highest authority there is, sir!"

"And what is that authority?"

"The Guiding Light of the Capitol, sir!"

"And if you die in the attempt of fulfilling this purpose?"

"No higher honor, sir!"

The Head Peacekeeper turns back to me with a smug expression. "As you can see Mellark, these aren't the same cowards who sold out District Two. Nobody here is afraid to die for the just cause of upholding order over chaos; honor over barbarism. We may go down, but you can bet that we take as many of you traitors with us as possible.

"Thing is… I have orders from the Capitol which state that, if we manage to get our hands on you, we're supposed to bring you in alive and unharmed. Personally, due to all of the damage you've done, I wish nothing more than to put a bullet in your skull. I wish nothing more than to put down this whole seditious district. But, orders are orders.

"So, Mellark, what's it going to—"

Suddenly, the district is reconnected to the grid; heralded by all of the lights coming back on, with many actually popping and going out due to surge of power. The whole time, the look of smug aggression on Thread's face transitions into mild confusion, followed by mounting realization.

"You know, Thread, thanks for the offer, but I think may I have other plans…" I state with a placid smile toward the Head Peacekeeper. I pull the pin off my cuff, and in the place of it, a small flame appears and proceeds to engulf my sleeve, the fabric of which is turning from that off-white to an anthracitic black. A signal is sent to the stuff in my hair and contacts to start their glowy magic; judging from the soft golden glow at the top of my vision and the blue glow all around, it seems to be working.

It also seems to be having an effect on Thread, who looks like he's about to careen over the edge in a state of rage-induced crazy.

"To hell with the orders! Kill him! KILL THEM ALL! LEVEL THIS DEN OF VIPERS TO THE GROUND!" he bellows while rapidly backing away towards the Justice Center.

While Thread's subordinates are processing his order, the lights once again dim as power is redirected. As they raise their guns to aim at me, a ring around the gallows begins to crackle. So by the time the triggers are pulled, the bullets ricochet harmlessly off the force field put up. I can't resist chuckling at the expression of sheer bemusement and shock on the faces of the Peacekeepers. _Haha, too slow…_

As the flames proceed to consume me, I glare straight into the camera and snarl out the trigger-phrase:

"Let. It. Burn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah… nothing more exciting than over seven thousand words of logistics for an extremely vague mission.
> 
> Things may have went a bit meta during the prep-process.


	29. District Inferno

Brutus' little helpers definitely did their job well in setting up this production set.

Immediately upon the uttering of the trigger-phrase, the gallows catch fire, and a ticking sound alerts me to prepare for what's coming up ahead.

_Three… Two… One…_

On cue, the platform drops, but I'm ready for the fall and land in a crouch. The moment I hit the ground, the flames set below erupt upwards to engulf me before spiraling up the walls of the columned force field in a fiery vortex. A screeching noise pierces the air as the whole structure breaks and collapses to the ground.

Beside me, Gale's consumed by the synthetic flames as well. Unlike mine, his Peacekeeper outfit doesn't just blacken but actually chars and cracks to crumble away, exposing the mockingjay armor underneath; only the helmet, which is a new addition, remains as it gains a patterning similar to the bird's crest. The backpack falls apart to reveal his quiver and arrows. Even though we're currently still shielded, he quickly removes, from the side of the quiver, a bar which automatically unfolds into a lightweight bow; not as powerful as the one he usually carries, but due to the covert nature of our assignment, dragging conspicuous weapons along with us is not an option.

At this same moment, while all attention is on us, Brutus and Luce should be going along the rooftops to take out any sentries there. Also the fog mines installed along the guard towers and anti-aircraft emplacements are likely being set off right now. 

Now comes the next part: my message to our esteemed president and the rest of those complicit to his regime.

People often talk about the power of love. I mean, what's not to love about love? However, people rarely talk about the power of the opposite side of the emotional spectrum. At the very least, it's not talked about in polite company.

Don't get me wrong, hate is a terrible thing, and I'm definitely no fan of the emotion. However, the power of it is undeniable, despite how much any decent person would wish to deny such things. And if harnessed right, it can be quite productive.

My goal to not lose myself is still valid. I'm not about to lose myself. I'm just… taking a stroll into a cave with a tether to bring me back when the time is right. This is the only way for my statement to hold the required amount of weight to make the proper impact. Hopefully Gale will do his part after I've done mine.

So I think back to everything Coriolanus Snow is responsible for. I dredge up every last bit of dirt on him to review.

The obvious place to start is with the Games. I think to all of the scared faces in the reapings; the hopeless kids from the outlier districts and the brainwashed kids from the Career districts; the brutality of the bloodbaths; the strong preying upon the weak and the meek becoming the sadistic; the very young like Rue having their light snuffed out early and the brutes like Cato being reduced to the scared kids they truly are as Gamemakers prolong their torture… all of it to bring fear to the districts and entertainment to the Capitol. I think to all of the victors who have had their loved ones killed off; the victors who have had their bodies sold to the highest bidder; the victors who have had their lives picked apart and put on display for the sake of ratings.

I think back to the starving souls in the districts with skeletal bodies and bloated bellies in the districts and contrast them to the Capitolites who voluntarily purge themselves; to those who are pressed to the most back-breaking labor in the manufacturing districts just to create fad items for the Capitol to take up and then discard when the newest trend comes around; to those in agricultural districts that can't even eat a tiny percentage of their harvest as their food goes to wasteful banquets. I think to how the young of Two are sent to kill and die just so Capitol can be isolated from the world outside. All the while, the Capitol consumes more and more and more… and the rest get nothing.

And then all of the lives I've seen ruined come to the forefront. I look at the whipping post and see a bloodied Gale slumped over and Eli suffering from infection. Then I remember the old man in Eleven who got a bullet in his head for his troubles; Darius, Pollux, and all the other Avoxes, who had their tongues cut out and other unspeakable things happen to them; the hospital in Eight, which was turned into a target for bombers; the people in Three and Eleven, who were massacred in the decimation; Finnick and Johanna, who were tortured while Annie was forced to watch; Haymitch, who has been reduced to a bitter drunken wreck; Cinna, who was beaten to death for daring to make a statement; Mr. Everdeen, who no longer graces the district with his voice, and Mr. Hawthorne, who no longer tell his children stories, just because they were forced into a mine to obtain a resource the Capitol never even has a need for; all of the tributes who never left the arenas; those who have to suffer their loved ones taken away; my family… my family…

I finally imagine the face of the man responsible… The one responsible to keeping this whole wretched system running. The one who threatened and humiliated all of us. The one who made Katniss… who made her… her…

_You… You did this… You brought this upon yourself. You brought this upon yourself, you fucking son of a bitch! No amount of blood taken from you can ever hope to wash away the debt you've incurred. So you deserve everything that's coming to you, and it'll still not be enough._

When the ringing fills my ears, I welcome it. Soon, all other sounds seem to just fade away as if the world has been put on mute, and the flames slow to a crawl before my eyes.

Just as I allow for the flames wreathe me, I focus on Snow himself and allow pure unbridled hatred to consume and replace all thoughts in my mind. So it's just me, the camera, and that bloody-lipped sadist.

Nothing else matters… Nothing else matters at all…

* * *

***The Capitol: Right Now***

Peeta Mellark has gone insane.

No other conclusion can be made for the sight before us. Even the Everdeens are taken aback by his demeanor.

His white Peacekeeper armor is now an iridescent black as scarlet flames dance all over and turquoise flames sprout from the shoulders; in the middle of his breastplate, the Capitol seal has been replaced with a glowing crimson mockingjay. That in itself is par for the course for his theatrics, even if the effects have been scaled up a bit; okay, they have been scaled up a lot.

However, it's the expression Mellark has that holds my attention. This is not the overly idealistic child with a crowd-pleasing smile everyone's used to seeing. No, this is the victor who threatened me back in Centerpoint; the one who allows poison to lace those words of his.

Mellark's face alternates between being lit up or completely silhouetted in shadow by the inferno surrounding him. The whole time, the glow of his fluttering hair makes it look like he himself is part-fire, and the electric-blue glow of his unblinking eyes cuts through everything else, especially when he's cast in shadow. That's when he bares his teeth and points straight at the camera.

No… he's pointing straight at _me_.

"Hey, Coriolanus, I know you're watching. Well… remember my promise? I sure do." Despite the deranged expression on his face, the boy comes out tranquil and collected. "You once stated that Katniss created a spark that would create an inferno which destroys Panem. Well, that inferno's pretty real. However, it's not Panem itself that's going to be destroyed; it's not even really going to be the Capitol. It's going to be _your_ Panem that we reduce to charred ashes, for which no tears shall be shed.

"And now that my district is being taken back, there's really just one last place to go. So enjoy the show because, after this, we're coming for you next." As he pulls back his hand to clench it into a fist, Mellark's smile soon morphs into a snarl as he coldly growls, "And like I said before: that is a promise."

With the conclusion of his speech, the boy becomes completely obscured by the flames increasing in intensity. The view is switched to another camera to show the swirling inferno climbing ever upwards in a luminescent pillar of fire until the flames suddenly expand out in the sky and begin branching into what appears to be nodes scattered at random spots. It looks like a fiery baobab tree.

_Wait… those aren't branches…_

After a while it becomes apparent as to the shape the flames are making: they are making a damn mockingjay with its shining wings outspread over the district.

_This… this is…_

_Damn him…_

Katniss' bratty little sister just has to use this to add her own smug input: "Peeta's right: once they get done mopping up over there, there's no place to go but here. And I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't looking forward to it."

 _And damn this insufferable girl._ "You know, Primrose, it's a very good thing that your sister is currently toeing the line; otherwise I would have had you Avoxed a long time ago."

While Katniss blanches, all Primrose does is give me a saccharine smile before popping a chestnut in her mouth and chirping, "I know."

* * *

***Back to Twelve***

The mixture of the projectors and synthetic flames set up definitely does its part in creating the light show. After a couple minutes the vortex stops spinning and the whole thing collapses.

As the flames cascade down, they sweep across the square and crash against the steps of the Justice Building like a torrent of water just released from behind a dam. As they hit the flagpole, the modified Capitol flag we slipped in earlier ignites to reveal a black flag with a golden mockingjay emblazoned on it.

At the same time of the cascade, the force field begins to reach the end of its life. However, if the Peacekeepers think they'll be able to take advantage of dropped defenses, they are sorely mistaken. Scattered throughout the square are a collection of Joseph's mines. When the synthetic fire goes over them, sensors are triggered for them to release plumes of very _real_ flames. Soon the square is turned into one big Peacekeeper grill. As an added bonus, the whipping post explodes, sending splinters of wood and metal in every direction.

While force field is enough to block the heat and shrapnel, it still allows in the chorus of soldiers screaming as they are charbroiled alive. As the screams grace my ears, I muse on the fact that I did offer them a chance at surrender. It's not my fault they decided to squander it. So since they have made their bed, now they are going to lay in it.

_What was it that you all said? Ah, yes: "no greater honor" to die for the Capitol. Well, it looks like you all are doing a good job at that right now. So, how does that honor feel? How does it—_

I'm suddenly yanked back behind the remains of the gallows and land on my back. Before I'm able to fight back at the unknown assailant, a pitcher's-worth of cold water splashes in my face.

"Hey, snap out of it!" Gale's voice barks with a slap on my face for good measure.

It takes me a few moments to reorient myself, and shame cascades over me at my last few thoughts. I look over to see Gale kneeling next to me with the pitcher in hand and concerned expression on his face.

"Congratulations Peeta, you're officially the scariest baker in the world," he pants.

"I try," I breezily remark despite how rattled I feel. "So does that mean we're sticking with 'Peeta' from now on?"

"Don't push it."

I hold up my hands in a placating manner. "Okay, okay."

Gale snorts, but I can see a slight trace of a smirk on his face. "But seriously, that was freaky," he mutters with a shake of his head. "Never thought I'd say this, but I think I prefer 'soft and sentimental' you. Try not to bring that other side up again."

"I don't plan on it…"

Explosions towards the direction of the Seam tell us that fight is starting to pick up there. Any moment now, the official forces the other districts, all borne in by hovercraft from Thirteen, will come a-knocking. Bogg's squad should also be in the district by now. Now and then, we see some of the rebel Peacekeepers as well; all identified by mockingjays stenciled in yellow and black safety paint on their armor.

"So now what?" Gale asks as he lets several arrows loose, taking out several Peacekeepers who rush us as the force field and incendiaries peter out.

"My job's pretty much done. Now it's just waiting for the battle to conclude." Frustration crosses Gale's face at that, which makes me add, "You can join the fight if you wish." It's pretty obvious that's what he wants.

The hunter looks conflicted for a moment before finally sighing and shaking his head. "No. Someone needs to look after you."

"Hey, I think you know me well enough to know I'm pretty good at surviving through a ton of shit. Just go on ahead; I'll be fine."

Gale's about to retort when his expression shifts to that of confusion. "Hey, what are Joe and Bannon doing up here? They said they were going to stay in the Seam."

Sure enough, we see Edwen and Joseph running up the hill. While both guys are still in Seam clothes, they wear what I think our Guardian glasses as well as cuff-like devices around their wrists. In addition to that, Joseph's vest is laden with what looks to be various grenades, satchels, and other things I don't even want to comprehend.

Unfortunately I have to, as a group of Peacekeepers almost waylays the duo. The two quickly duck behind a corner as the Peacekeepers rush past them. That's when Joseph pulls out a large spherical item. Once the enemy soldiers are far enough, he lobs the device at them; it arcs in the air and barely is at head-level when it explodes in the middle of the group.

I'm not sure if the black substance that comes out is a gas or a liquid. Whatever it is, it forms an almost solid-looking cloud that settles over the soldiers. Their screams are suffocated almost instantly. What's left looks like a mass of tar that has impacted the area; amorphous mounds signify the presence of the Peacekeeper bodies.

The two then proceed to get into a heated discussion, with Joseph rapidly signing at Edwen and pointing at one of the Peacekeeper spotlights in the corner of the square nearest to us; Edwen just looking progressively angrier by the second as he jabs his finger in our direction. Finally they split, with Joseph racing towards the spotlight and Edwen running in our direction.

Once he finally reaches us, I try to ignore the fact that his clothes are covered in blood splatters and his collapsible baton — normally disguised as a working flashlight — looks like it has fragments of skin, hair, and bone stuck to it.

"Damn mute fucking forgot his damn collar, and I don't fucking know a damn thing about fucking sign language," he seethes. "All I reckon is that Joe wants to do something with that light. In the meantime, since Dewdrop's busy having some fun in one of the barracks, I'm just waiting for a special delivery to arrive."

I push the image of Edwen's definition of fun out of my mind by asking, "Why wait here?" 

He shrugs. "Open space with chokepoints is the best spot to attack from."

I try not to think about what he has planned as I watch Joseph work intently on the spotlight. He appears to be replacing the light itself with another device that fits into the fixture. That's when I see a nearby Peacekeeper attempting to sneak up and get a good shot at him.

Before I know what I'm doing, I yell out a warning to Joseph — he quickly sees his assailant and attempts to crouch down to minimize his profile; however it's a bit hard to evade when on a platform — before slamming into the Peacekeeper. The soldier misses his target but quickly rolls away, gets up and trains his gun on me. But before he can fire, his helmet visor shatters and is accompanied by a splatter of blood before the body crumples.

I look around to know who fired that bullet only to see Gale, Edwen, and Joseph staring at me with wide eyes. Then I remember one of the "gifts" Arezzo left at Delly's place and make a mental note to thank Luce later.

"Hey, I reckon that Joe wants you," Edwen comments.

Looking back at the platform, I indeed see Joseph gesturing for me to come to him. When I get there, he gives me a small nod and smirk before pointing at the ground. At the base of the platform, there's a mass of cables; that's when I notice the disconnected plug.

"You want me to plug that back in?"

His nod confirms my thought, and I crawl underneath the structure to reconnect the light to the grid; shortly after I plug it back in, a small humming sound can be heard above me. I'm about to run back to my spot when Edwen tells me to stay where I am.

"Trust me, it's safer where you are when he turns the torch on," the scientist remarks as he hunkers down. _The "torch"?_

In a couple minutes, I see exactly what the torch does. A squad of Peacekeepers comes charging just as Joseph turns the device on to release a beam of golden light; the soldiers freeze as if transfixed. That's when I notice their flesh melting off their bodies as if wax next to a fireplace; my stomach turns, and I turn away before I can see the end result.

As Joseph aims the torch at another squad, I'm alerted to a horribly familiar series of clicking noises getting progressively more cacophonous and numerous. I look at Edwen to see that a large swarm of glittering insects has descended upon him. He looks up towards the platform with a wide and unnerving grin. "Hey Joe… You didn't think that you tech guys would have all the fun, did you?"

The moment he sees a group of Peacekeepers, Edwen points a gloved hand in their direction. Immediately the swarm erupts into light and a collective cicada-like call as it rushes and converges on the now-panicking soldiers; it doesn't take long to strip them down to bone. With a flick of Edwen's wrist, the swarm flows on to another unit distracted by engaging rebel forces.

I wonder if Gale would be so enthusiastic about fighting the Capitol with the techniques these guys use. Then again, he does work with Joseph when designing those weapons of his.

_Wait…_

_Where is Gale?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compared the to force field at the arena boundary, the one here is based on the one that kept people in and out of the different wedges during the QQ.
> 
> Some of the weapons Joe uses may be a tad bit familiar for MJ readers.


	30. Fire-Forged Brother

***And now, for someone a bit different…***

I sometimes forget how brutal the Central guys can be. Hell, I work with Joe —considering that he actually specializes in weaponry, he was actually one of the first engineers Beetee introduced to me — and still I'm not familiar with most of the stuff he has up his sleeve. And Bannon… well, Bannon seriously gives me the creeps sometimes.

In any case, they are taking out the enemy, which is the only thing that matters as I carefully sneak my way towards the mayor's house; it's the direction I previously saw Romulus Thread and several of his lackeys run off to. Earlier I had to restrain myself from chasing after him as looking after Peeta and keeping him alive is the utmost priority, despite the borderline-suicidal maniac's protestations to the contrary. However, he seems safe enough, if a bit disturbed, underneath that platform as the two combat engineers have their… um, fun. So that leave me free to pursue at will; softly padding along the shadows to stay out of sight.

As I approach the house, I slow my movement even more and go even deeper into the shadows due to the sight before me. Scattered along the street are the bodies of Peacekeepers, which wouldn't be bad if it weren't for the fact that the majority have rebel markings on them. While passing the nearest body, I take a look at his face and a pang of recognition goes through me; he was one of the Hob regulars. Upon closer inspection, it's the same for the rest of them. I know that the old guard was a very close-knit group even amongst the rebels, so it makes sense that they'd band together in combat.

"Gale!" The whispered call — to my surprise, it sounds suspiciously like Thom's — gets my attention, and I cautiously approach the spot behind a stack of crates that's set up across the corner from the mayor's house. Huddled there is the remainder of the group plus Thom — still to my surprise — who's wearing rebel-marked chest armor over his clothes; most of them seem to be pretty banged-up. In the middle of them and sitting with her back against the crates, while cradling a wounded and barely-conscious soldier, is Purnia.

"I'm surrounded by hotheaded idiots," she mutters in a way that is neither malicious nor exasperated, but forlorn; I notice that she has a crudely patched-up shoulder wound. The rest seem to bow their head in shame.

"What happened here?" I ask.

"Everybody wanted to attack Thread head-on, and I was stupid enough to go along with the plan. Look at us now…"

I grimace and sigh internally. I also know that the group had a grudge against the Head Peacekeeper for what he did to Darius. Hell, I was pretty pissed when Peeta told me the guy's fate and Annie told me what the Avoxing procedure consisted of. So of course they would have a target in mind when the time came.

I look at Thom. "And why are you here?" Yeah, I know that he's with the rebels, but I didn't expect him to be all the way in the fray like this.

"Support," he remarks while gesturing towards the pack across his shoulders. When I look inside, I see a bunch of mining explosives jury-rigged as improvised grenades.

I nod my head towards the house. "So I take it that he's holed-up in there?"

"Yeah," Purnia notes before eyeing me critically. "You're planning on going in there to attack him, aren't you."

"Yep. Enemy numbers?"

Some time seems to pass before she closes her eyes and sighs. "There's Thread, plus four of his men. From what I can tell, they are out of or low on ammo, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous."

"What do you mean?"

"They were Career-trained in their youth; we're lucky enough that that little display of yours wiped out the majority of them. Also, Thread may have gone insane and become very unpredictable and erratic lately, but that doesn't mean you should underestimate him; in fact, I would advise extra caution."

 _Great…_ "What about you guys?"

"We're in no shape to go on the offensive. So are you still sure you want to do this?"

"Yes." The answer comes almost instantly.

"… Fine… In which case, I notice that you don't have a sidearm, so take this," she says while handing me her pistol.

"Thanks." I take a minute to get some of the smaller explosives from Thom before continuing on.

I keep to the opposite side of the street when I take position in front of the entrance. Considering that they're supposedly out of ammo, most, if not all, of Thread's lackeys are going to be on the first floor. Judging from the muffled bellowing I hear emanating from a window, upstairs is where Thread himself will be.

So I take one of Thom's fifteen-second explosives and carefully attach it — the thing comes with an adhesive strip — to the side of one of my arrows. Due to the nature of my mission, carrying the explosive and incendiary arrows was not an option, so I have to make due. Fortunately, one of the windows is broken, which will make this much easier. I quickly set the explosive, aim the arrow, and let it fly into the house. Hopefully, it's large enough to do the job and small enough to not bring the whole building down.

_I wonder if Madge is alright._

_Wait… where did that thought even come from?_

I quickly shake my head to focus at the task at hand and set another arrow. A few seconds later, the explosive goes off along with a scream, which means that probably at least one person's down. It also does its job by flushing the others out from their entrenched position. One Peacekeeper comes within my sights and earns an arrow in the chest.

_It's just hunting… It's just hunting… It's just hunting…_

When I see no more movement, I set another explosive arrow and aim it towards the door. May be a bit overkill, but I don't want to waste time in case it's locked; not to mention that there may be somebody hiding behind or beside it.

After it explodes in a shower of splinters, I don't waste any time making my move; can't give anybody anytime to regroup.

Upon entry I take a quick look around with an arrow at the ready. The explosives have definitely done a number on the normally plush interior. Debris is strewn everywhere and acrid smoke hangs in the air. On the ground I see one of the Peacekeepers with my arrow lodged in him and another one twitching near the impact zone.

Suddenly, somebody crashes into me — my bow and arrow goes falling to the ground — and holds me in place with his baton braced against my neck. At the same time, another guy comes running at me with a freaking fire poker held with the likely intent to skewer me. I thus respond like any practical person would in such a situation: I go for the balls. Incidentally, the one holding me in place provides leverage as I kick out and up; my target's groin guard can only protect so much. As he doubles over, I follow up with a kick to the head, seemingly incapacitating him for at least the moment.

There's still the guy who's currently attempting to choke me, and I can hear Coach Peeta yelling in my head to get out of this lock. So I rapidly move backwards until we slam into a wall. I slam repeatedly into it for good measure until the grip slackens, at which I quickly twist the baton out of the Peacekeeper's grip before turning around to knee him in stomach. While I do make contact and seem to knock a bit of the wind out of him, he still manages to slam the base of his hand into my jaw; I think a couple teeth have been loosened.

I stumble back towards the window as he charges me. Once he's about to make impact, I duck down, grab an arm, and allow his momentum to carry him over my back and out the window. _If only Peeta can see me now…_

In my boundless wisdom, I decide to check on the state of the Peacekeeper by looking outside. The moment I peer out the widow, he lunges up and grabs the back of my helmet with one hand, and my collar in the other, before pulling me downward towards the row of jagged glass that lines the base of the broken window. While I'm able throw my hands forward to grab the sill — they are cut a bit in the process, but compared to the alternative… — it leaves me with no way of fighting back as the Peacekeeper slowly brings my neck closer to the edge.

That's when a burst of gunfire rips through the air, and I'm suddenly let go, causing me to fall backwards on my ass. When I get back up, I see my bullet-riddled assailant on the ground and give an appreciative wave towards the guys behind the crates.

I'm about to head toward the staircase when I'm confronted with the fact that there's still a Peacekeeper active on this floor via a tackle to the ground; while most of my brain is focused on the fight at hand, a small part of my mind is just grateful that he no longer has the poker. The resulting fight is… not something that would be considered clean and pretty; I'm just lucky to have my eyes still in their sockets.

That's when we notice the gun lying next to the arrow-shot Peacekeeper. We both scramble towards it and grab the piece at the same time, the resultant struggle focused on getting it to point to our intended target. I finally have had enough and lean forward to chomp down on the Peacekeeper's hand. He howls in pain and is weakened enough for me to turn the gun in his direction. The expression on his face just has enough time to change from determined anger to sheer terror before I pull the trigger and my vision is obscured by the resultant splatter hitting my visor; I try to keep from thinking about the Peacekeeper's last facial expression as his lifeless body collapses on top of me. I only give myself a minute to push the body off and ineffectually wipe at my visor before getting up and proceeding onward.

Trying to keep my limping at a minimum, I make my way up the stairs as I take Purnia's gun out; I don't want to risk using a potentially clogged firearm. Fortunately, the house is carpeted, which helps silence my movement despite my current decrease in gracefulness. When I get to the second floor, there's nobody to be seen yet, so I carefully go from door to door along the hallway. It's not until several doors down when I finally run into people. To my irrationally extreme relief, the Undersees are alright, though rattled from the looks of how they are huddled together. For some reason, Madge's wide eyes keep shifting over to the right.

 _What's she looking at?_ I pull the visor up. _Damn blood's getti—_

The succession of loud bangs, and a punch to the stomach and chest, interrupts my train of thought before I topple over on my back. _This isn't happening_ _ _…_ This isn't happening!_

Peeta's description of a gunshot still doesn't prepare me for the excruciating wave of agony that spread from those points of impact. It takes everything within it me to keep at least semi-lucid as somebody approaches.

The gun's only a few feet away, so I lean over the best I can and reach out towards it.

_If I can just—_

My attempt is interrupted by a foot slamming down on my wrist, and a whole new level of pain erupts from that spot as I hear what sounds like my bones cracking and somebody emitting a primal scream; it vaguely occurs to me that the scream is mine.

When my vision clears of the majority of spots and fuzz, I look up to see Thread standing over me with a large pistol in his grip. His dark eyes shine with a maniacal glint as a muscle on his temple twitches.

"You… I knew that you were trouble the moment you showed up with that turkey. I should have just killed you that day along with those damn victors. But we know that wouldn't be enough; that wouldn't be enough at all. The corruption runs too deep. I can't even trust my supposed fellow comrades-in-arms. This entire wretched hive should have been razed to the ground."

Purnia's right: Thread has gone completely bonkers. Hell, he makes _Peeta_ appear sane. I'll admit that, despite my current predicament, this breakdown does provide a small amount of amusement.

"Have you no idea what you all have wrought? The Capitol brings order to Panem; it and its laws are the only things that keep this nation from tearing itself apart and becoming a wasteland. And yet you are now willingly seeking to destroy it!

"I know that I'm not going to live through this night. In fact, between dying and living through the coming chaos, I choose death."

_Then why don't you safe us the time and put yourself out of our misery?_

"But…" he states with a sudden air of clarity and calmness, "at the very least, I can take you and as many other traitors with me."

_Shit._

Time seems to slow down as he begins raising his gun.

_Huh… So this is it…_

To my surprise, I don't feel any impending sense of dread. Hell, I felt more anxious when I was led to face the lash. Maybe it's because I'm already pretty battered from the recent scuffles and just gained some bullets in me already, so one extra one isn't going to be a big deal.

In any case, despite the fact that it's not like my intended audience is going to hear anything, I use the apparent time lag to send a couple messages out.

_Catnip… I'm sorry failed in that simple job to keep your family safe. I hope you, Prim, and your mom will still come out safe after this. While you know that I wished for more out of this, I still appreciate and am glad for all the years we've had together._

_Ma, Rory, Vick, Posy… I know you all worry about me, especially you, Ma. Well, I'm sorry that your fears seem to be coming to fruition. At least a new day is coming where you will no longer have to worry about reapings, starvation, or threats from the Capitol. And, little guys, new opportunities should be coming up for you to take. Make the most of it._

_I love you all._

_Peeta… Heh… We definitely haven't seen eye to eye on a lot of stuff, but that hasn't stopped you from working with me with that damnable good nature of yours. I have never truly thanked for all you've done. I don't mean your Rebellion work — as important as it is — but rather giving me those lessons, helping my family, and doing your best to keep Katniss safe. As much as I hate to admit it, you do well with her; her reaction during the Quell proved that._

_In any case, you may not be a fighter, yet you sure are giving the Capitol hell; keep that up, but do try not to go crazy again in the process. Also, please look after my family… and get her home._

_I'm proud to have known you as a friend._

_Wait. No… that's not quite right. That not right at all. You're not my friend. You're… my…_

"Brother…"

"Come again?" Thread's voice pulls me back to reality, and I see that his gun is now aimed directly at my head.

Well, if I'm going to go out, I'm not going to give this asshole any satisfaction. So I muster enough energy to glare straight into his eyes and grit out, "Fuck… You…" _Same goes for you, Snow…_

I follow that up by spitting right at Thread's face. Or at least I try. It falls a bit… short; landing instead on his slacks and staining the white fabric crimson.

_Well, that can't be good. Oh well…_

All the Head Peacekeeper does in response is briefly look down at the blood-laden spittle with slight disgust and calmly follow up with, "You're not my type."

The gun fires.

_Ma—*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …


	31. Triangle's End

***Still not Peeta...***

The muzzle flash and report shatters my previous train of thought as the bullet goes past the left side of my face, tearing along the chinstrap and clipping the edge of my helmet in the process, with a slight sting on my ear.

_That's a close call… That's a very close call!_

When I see the reason for it, my jaw drops in disbelief. Dangling from Thread's shoulders is Madge, who seems to have a firm grip as the Head Peacekeeper attempts to shake her off his back. Several times, she rakes her nails along his face, leaving some very angry-looking scratches, and when he tries to pry her off, she responds by chomping down on his hand.

Finally, he throws her off his back, and she hits the ground in a roll. But before he can aim his gun at her, the rapid sound of abysmally-heavy footfalls — the floor is carpeted, yet he somehow still can't manage to soften his steps — heralds the arrival of somebody familiar. Thread is barely able to turn towards the source when Peeta slams into him in a flying tackle. As the gun goes flying and the two tumble to the ground, Madge runs back into the bedroom to rummage for something. Mayor Undersee moves to walk towards me, but his daughter shakes her head and says something that makes him reluctantly sit back down with his wife. Not bother to figure out what that was about, I look back at the other two guys to see Thread on his back and Peeta whaling on him.

Besides all the "matches" we've had, I've seen the Games and know that Peeta is strong and can sort of fight. However, I have never really appreciated that fact until now, as I watch the young baker pummel the Head Peacekeeper. Peeta definitely isn't holding back as he sends a continuous string of punch after punch while wearing a frighteningly uncharacteristic expression of pure distilled and undiluted rage. _I take back all the times I've made fun of him for being "soft"; he's definitely the world's scariest baker…_ Despite the disturbing nature of his current emotional state, I can't help but silently cheer him on as he slams his fist down repeatedly.

However, my cheer is short-lived as Thread manages to get a punch in, which causes Peeta to clutch at his own face as a wave of blood gushes out from his nose and through his fingers. The Peacekeeper uses that opening to throw his assailant off of him. Both manage to get up to their feet but, before Peeta can recover enough to retaliate or defend himself, Thread quickly moves behind him to wrap an arm around his neck.

Immediately, I can see Peeta attempting to go through every tactic he knows break out of the chokehold; at the very least, he seems to be keeping from having his blood vessels pinched. But the older man also seems to not only be bigger and stronger but more skilled in how to deal with this. Very soon, the baker's forced down to his knees, and his struggling is reduced to desperately clawing at the Peacekeeper and making the most horrible gagging sound while panic gradually sets in on his face.

 _No!_ __Come on, you're stronger than this._ Don't die now. dammit! Don't let this fucker win! _

The worse thing is that I can't do anything to help. Even if I were able to reach a weapon and dull the pain enveloping me, my body seems to be utterly incapacitated.

So I have to watch impotently as his movements become feebler with each passing second and facial complexion gains a purple hue. When Peeta's arms finally begin to go limp as his eyes lose focus and roll back into their sockets, Thread's already-maniacal expression gains that of smug triumph.

What he doesn't see in that triumphant state is a very pissed-off mayor's daughter entering the hallway from another room and rapidly sneaking up on him. Before Thread notices her, Madge slams two very full syringes, one held in each hand, into his neck to deliver their contents. She follows that up by quickly turning her wrists to audibly snap the needles while they're still in.

_Wait… did she… did she actually… what the hell just happened?_

With a roar, Thread swings an arm back, his fist making contact with Madge's face and sending her staggering backwards; though she doesn't fall but instead backs into, and stabilizes herself on, a dressing table. In recognizing the new threat, Thread lets go of Peeta — the boy's body falls forward to lie motionlessly on the ground — and turns around to advance upon the girl while attempting to remove the needles from his neck. However, the moment he reaches her, Madge smashes a lamp into his face, burying shards of glass into it including the eyes; before the Peacekeeper can retaliate, she jumps back nimbly with a letter opener in hand. In general, she's not attacking but keeping just out of reach of Thread while goading him on; it's as if she's biding time for something.

While that's happening, my eyes flit back to Peeta, who's still not moving. Fear begins to grip me, despite my refusal to acknowledge the worst. This guy couldn't have gone through two Games, a bombing, riot, and battle, not to mention several mental breakdowns, just to be taken out by an insane Head Peacekeeper. Worse, I realize that this happened because he followed me while I was consumed with desire to pursue a vendetta that wasn't even successful in completion. Suddenly I hear a groan and see his arm shift, and I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief as he rolls over onto his back. Looks like he's still out of it, but what matters is that he's alive and otherwise okay. _Add Romulus Thread to the list of things you survived, Peeta._

Speaking of which, I look back towards our esteemed Head Peacekeeper to see that he's stopped his pursuit. I initially think it's just due to being tired, but after stopping, the man seems unsteady on his feet and his breathing becomes more slow and shallow. Finally, he simply collapses to the ground in front of a contemptuous Madge, who only acknowledges his presence by spitting on his face as she strides towards me.

When it looks like she's heading straight in my direction, I tilt my head towards Peeta who has managed to get into a somewhat-sitting position. Madge's path veers just the slightest, but Peeta himself motions for her to forget him and continue towards me, which she seems to do unhesitatingly. Upon reaching me, the mayor's daughter carefully removes my helmet while giving a concerned once-over at me. She follows that up by running back into the bedroom before returning with another syringe — I wonder how many they have — and a small vial of what I realize is morphling. It doesn't take long for everything to get set up and applied.

As the drug works its magic — its oh-so-light and wonderfully-fuzzy magic — a small fact just occurs to me:

_I'm alive… I-I'm actually alive! I — oh… um, well… This is embarrassing._

I'm willing to tear my focus away from this other just-realized fact, which highlights a current… compromising predicament, to look upon the radiant girl who's holding my hand and brushing my hair back. _Madge Undersee just saved my life._ With Mayor Undersee's assistance, Peeta manages to join us and hoarsely inquires as to my state of being while looking at me in that worried manner of his; it's funny that he should fret considering what he just went through.

Despite the difficulty in doing so, a small chuckle comes up at their concern. So as I'm finally overtaken by the comforting darkness, I somehow have just enough strength to grin and muster up a full unbroken statement about the thing that really matters:

"I think I just shat myself…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yeah… ending this on a classy note…


	32. The Dandelion

"I let you kids go off-comm for a couple days and _this_ is what I'm left with!"

It was inevitable that we would have to deal with Haymitch's wrath sooner or later; doesn't make things any less unpleasant. And considering the state we're in right now, there's not exactly much room for us to retort.

"The two of you had very simple tasks; absurdly simply tasks. Hell, I think even Sweetheart could have followed them.

"You, boy…" Looks like I'm the one who gets to be lectured first. "I thought we agreed that, right after your little performance, you were going to find shelter."

"I did." Great, my voice is still coming all nasally. Fortunately, my nose doesn't need resetting, but it's still broken and swollen. In any case, what I'm telling my mentor is technically the truth.

Unfortunately, he also knows me too well. "Last I checked, getting into a one-on-one fight with a Head Peacekeeper does not constitute as finding shelter. And before you get clever with me, I meant staying in shelter for the whole duration."

"You didn't seem to complain that much when I had a gun to my head in Two."

"A scared and injured kid who was ready to keel over anyways is a bit of a different threat than Romulus Thread. I thought by now, with all your reading, that you'd be familiar with the guy and how dangerous he is— well… _was_." Turns out Madge's little trick with the morphling not only took the Peacekeeper out of commission but actually killed him due to the amount being enough to induce a lethal overdose. As much as I don't like to think such brutal thoughts, dying by practically falling asleep is too good of a death for that monster.

I did read up on Thread and know how dangerous he was; he wasn't just any Head Peacekeeper, but was one of Snow's right-hand men who was known for his skill, unwavering loyalty, and level of brutality. Which explains why he was in charge of Eleven, and why Snow later sent him here to pacify the district. So yeah, going against him one-on-one was a stupid idea on my part.

However, all reason went out the window when I heard Gale's scream when I entered the house and the second gunshot right when I reached the top of the stairs. At that point, my mind went to the worst possible conclusion, and things may have gotten a bit… fuzzy from there. Next thing I knew, I was in a headlock and losing consciousness from lack of oxygen; in retrospect, I also did have a knife on me, but again, I wasn't thinking straight.

"Sorry." Now I sound like a little kid who accidentally tracked flour all over the house… which totally wasn't me.

Instead of acknowledging the apology, Haymitch rounds on my Seam counterpart. "And you… what part about 'keep your eye on the boy and protect him' did you not understand?"

I feel the need to defend Gale and cut in, "I told him that it was fine for him to join the fight, and that I could handle myself."

Haymitch immediately whips around to roar at me, "AND THE DIPSHIT ACTUALLY LISTENED TO YOU?" When he looks back at Gale, he still has a hand jabbing in my direction. "I'd thought you'd know by now that you should never, _ever_ , trust anything that comes out of his mouth in regards to his own self-preservation. 'I'm not planning on running into any burning buildings.' 'It's not like I'm going to walk right up to an enemy soldier in the square.' 'Me, mouth off to Thirteen Command?' 'Of course I can handle myself as you run off to pursue your personal vendetta.' Not planning on being a martyr my ass…"

"I don't sound like that," I retort with a scowl in response to his falsetto impersonation.

"Right now, you'll sound just how I want you to sound. And now look at you two."

Okay, he has a point there. Even with my broken nose and bruised neck, I got lucky when compared to Gale. Bruised ribs, bruised chest and stomach, bruised eye, broken right wrist, several loose and chipped teeth, twisted ankle, sprained knee, gouges on his face, chunk missing from the edge of his left earlobe… Medical's going to have a field day when we get back to Central. Not to mention that we both… um… made a mess of ourselves, though in different ways; probably shouldn't have drunk so much water beforehand.

I'm just glad we got cleaned up and received a change of clothes afterwards.

"I didn't think he'd follow me…" Gale mumbles also in a childish manner; I don't envy him when he has to confront Hazelle. Also, even while talking softly, the guy still sounds like he can hardly breathe.

"Well, then you haven't been paying attention," Haymitch sneers as he takes a swig before grumbling, "To think, if it weren't for Princess saving the day, I'd probably have a couple martyrs on my hand."

"I'm not your princess," Madge shoots back as she sits at Gale's side. "And if weren't for them arriving, Thread could have killed me and my family. Also, I wouldn't have had an opening to take him down."

This actually seems to give the old victor pause. "So in essence, the two idiots were a decoy."

"It's not like I planned on it happening… But I'd be lying if I didn't see the opportunity present itself." She looks at us apologetically. "Sorry."

"It's cool," we both respond with a shrug. She saved our lives, so we can't exactly complain.

At the very least, Haymitch's demeanor seems to be on the upswing, even if it's at our expense. "Sometimes, I think you're the only kid with brains in this whole damn district. Maybe you should get the position of being the face of the Rebellion instead of these two…"

"She can have it," Gale and I say in unison at exactly the same moment Madge states, "They can keep it."

"But… who am I to go against popular opinion?" my mentor muses as he departs. _Smug bastard…_

Once Haymitch is out of sight, Gale turns to me. "Peeta, I've been thinking… It's about you and me."

It seems that Haymitch is not fully out of earshot as he pokes his head back in the doorway to quip, "You two lovebirds finally decided to burn your toast?"

If looks could kill, the one both of us are giving my mentor right now would probably be enough to level the Capitol and win the war. Maybe the guys in Central can figure out a way to weaponize angry glares; actually wouldn't be surprised if a couple of them have tried.

" _Anyways…_ " Gale breathes though gritted teeth before continuing: "Considering all that you've done… we've not only been through a lot together, but you've also helped out my family so many times… and well… I want you to be officially part of it."

_What?_

He hastily adds, "I'm not saying that you should change your name or anything. I don't even think 'Peeta Hawthorne' even sounds good."

I can't help but scrunch up my face. "No it doesn't. To be fair, 'Gale Mellark' isn't any better."

That causes him to chuckle a bit, despite how much it probably hurts. "But seriously, I think Ma and the rest of them would be happy to have you; besides, I'm sure Posy already thinks that you're another big brother to her. And don't take this the wrong way… but you look like you could really use a family right now."

I _have_ been with the Hawthornes a lot. I've even knowingly sullied my reputation further with Coin just to bring them to Central. Not to mention that my niece is practically growing up as a second daughter to Hazelle, who has shown me more warmth and care these past few months than my birth mother has in the past few years. Also, my relation to Gale has lately become considerably more complex than friendship, though definitely _not_ in the way that Haymitch's snide insinuations have implied.

My family is gone; there's no changing that. They won't be forgotten, but the fact remains that I'll no longer have Dad's gentle nature, my brothers' playfulness, or even Mother's useful pragmatism in my life; except for maybe dreams. The Hawthornes can't replace that. However…

"So…" Gale shakes me out me of my thoughts as he holds out his uninjured hand. "Brother?"

I don't even hesitate when I clasp it with a grin. "Brother."

However, they can possibly provide a new beginning.

Of course, Haymitch has to ruin the moment by cheerfully adding, "By the way, you do know that this means that I'm going to tell Hazelle's what happened to both of you, right?"

The smile I'm wearing slips away to be replaced by something probably along the lines of horror. "Aw hell…"

When I take a step back, Gale's grip tightens, and he growls, "No takebacks. There's no way I'm going at this alone."

"… Fine," I shoot back, though I do so with a smirk and no ill-will. I think I can hear Haymitch muttering, "These kids are going to be the end of me…"

Delly must have heard the conversation, because as she walks in with some food for us, she crows on about the good news, which it is, though it'd be nice if she weren't so high-pitched. At least it's better than earlier when she was yelling about my recklessness and almost getting myself killed… again. Even after all the years that I've known her, I did not know that her voice could become so squeaky.

Wanting to change the subject before Haymitch says another gem, I decide to pounce on the situation right in front of me.

"Well…" I steeple my hands together as I look between the hunter and the mayor's daughter. "You two seem close."

It gets the desired reaction as they flush deep crimson but don't refute my statement, which causes me and Delly to share conspiratorial smirks. In all honesty, I'm both surprised and unsurprised. Surprised because I recalled Madge mentioning that their interactions were… abrasive at best. Unsurprised because I know that she views a lot of things as challenges to beat, even in her own quiet and low-key manner.

In any case, both of them do look happy — well, as happy as a guy who just got out of being beaten up and shot can be — which makes me happy for them; admittedly not entirely for altruistic reasons, but the point's moot. At the same time, I'm slightly curious as to when the affection became mutual. Delly did tell me once that the two of them spoke to each other during our first Games, but that doesn't seem to be enough. Ah well.

The pair explains that they talked a bit more right before and during the Quell ever since Gale found out that Madge gave him the morphling and was in the know about the Rebellion. I wonder if that's all they did…

"Like I said before… she _really_ likes those strawberries."

Madge beats us to the punch. "Fuck off, Haymitch!"

~oOo~

"I never properly thanked you for saving me back there."

Luce just waves my comment off. "Not only was it my mission, but I should be thanking _you_ for saving Joe's life. It… well… let's just say it means a lot to me."

I myself am glad Joe and Ned — the engineers made it clear that I earned one-syllable name privileges — no longer seem contemptuous towards me. Actually, they're downright amicable; granted, it's a bit hard to tell with Joe's inability to vocalize anything. Brutus is already friendly, so no change there.

"By the way, what happened there?" I ask, pointing to the patch over Luce's right eye and scrapes on that side of his face.

He gesticulates nonchalantly. "Some lucky guy managed to scope-snipe me. Fortunately the bullet didn't travel all the way, but it still knocked my gun back and give me a face full of fragments. I think I got a small shard in my eye, but nothing that won't heal." I still resist the urge to cringe. "Ultimately, he was taken care of in due time. In any case, quite a battle, huh?"

I just nod a bit. Apparently, most of it was concentrated in the Seam, which was where most of the district residents rose up. However, once it began moving up to the town, the people there were prepared and got involved. The outside forces ended mostly coming in through the station, with several aerial drops scattered throughout the district; Bogg's squad simply barged in through the open meadow gate and Seam once defenses were down. By dawn, Twelve had been secured, and Purnia's currently delegated as the interim commander of the district. Even better, the infrastructure and supplies have remained more or less intact, which should help the Rebellion in the long term; in the longer term, I suspect Twelve's role in this nation is going to be a bit different than coal mining.

That being said, it was not without a cost. Despite the effort to minimize casualties on our side, it's currently projected that there are at least a couple hundred district residents and rebel Peacekeepers — not to mention several dozen out-of-district soldiers — killed and many more wounded. While the majority of enemy Peacekeepers were killed off in the initial surprise attack, there was still a sizable enough group to mount a heavy resistance; not helping was the fact that none of them were interested in surrendering, with some going so far as committing to mass charge attacks to go out in a blaze of glory and demoralize rebel fighters. Also, while the anti-aircraft turrets were taken out by the planted bombs, there were still Peacekeepers with shoulder-mounted anti-aircraft rockets who took out several of our hovercraft.

In the end, the square has been cleared of its… debris to serve as a makeshift hospital. The air's a bit chilly, but tolerable, and at least the conditions are considerably better than in Eight; what helps is the considerable stockpile of medical equipment freed from the med station. So, to keep myself busy, I'm staying here to wander around and talk to the wounded, usually following Luce in the process as he works with the other medics. The funny thing is that he is giving Peacekeepers — it's rare, but a few a have been captured wounded but alive — the same amount of attention that he would rebels.

When I ask him how he's able to treat both friend and foe with little-to-no issue, he just shrugs and states, "As a Guardian, I may have taken an oath to fulfill any mission given to me, as well as to protect my community against all threats, be they external or internal. However as a practitioner of medicine, I have taken an oath to diagnose and treat any patient to the best of my ability, no matter what banner they have lived or fought under."

Not that there hasn't been any incidents. Apparently, in the beginning, one wounded Peacekeeper attempted to use the opportunity to set off a grenade that he'd somehow snuck in. Luce spotted and grabbed it before it could be set off; he immediately followed that up by slashing the guy's jugular. Nobody tried anything funny after that.

"So how do you keep your two oaths from clashing?" I can't help but ask.

"You mean how do I keep from having conflicts about treating an enemy combatant whom I just fought against?" When I nod, he pauses for a while before giving an answer uncharacteristically devoid of cheer: "Easy…

"I try not to leave any patients the first time around."

~oOo~

"Have you heard the big news?" Haymitch asks as we stroll over to the Victors' Village to pick up some stuff before leaving. Apparently, it has been untouched during the entire occupation. The Capitol was probably planning on holing us back there after their planned victory.

"I've been a bit out of the loop lately," I dryly reply.

"Well, it turns out that our two victors from Four have decided to tie the knot."

That stops me short a bit. "Finnick and Annie are getting married? That great!" And I mean it; those two deserve to be happy together.

"Yep. Of course Plutarch wants to broadcast it. He says that there needs to be something uplifting to be broadcast out to the nation, especially to the Capitol."

"Ah, so some sunshine to supplement the war," I note with a grimace. "Did they agree to it?"

"I can't say that they are thrilled about to be broadcasted, but they didn't object and understood the purpose. In any case, Four's still a bit of a hot zone right now, and there's no way in hell we are going back to Thirteen; I don't even think that district knows how to throw a party. So it's going to be held in Central in little over a week. Anyways, my point is this:

"Firstly off: Annie wants you to be her 'bridesman' to stand by her during the ceremony and help plan things."

That really catches me by surprise. "She does?"

He nods. "Mmhm… Jo's going be Finnick's 'best maid', so it all works out. Secondly: they want you to make the cake."

"I'd be happy to." I really would, and I know there will be no need to act for the cameras on my part.

When I go inside the house, I find that it's almost just as I left it, though I don't doubt that Capitol officials rummaged around just to see if there were any subversive items to be had.

After going around and grabbing all that I need or want, I go to the last room, I find myself in my studio. There's no way I'm taking any of these paintings with me, though I do grab some of my supplies; however, I just feel the need to take a look at them. It's while I'm looking at these paintings that I see the book sitting on the empty easel.

If memory serves me right, that easel held one of my last paintings before the reaping. It's of the meadow in springtime, right as the first wildflowers began blooming. I remember that's also when I was really trying to get the colors of the sunset right. The painting must be the one that Katniss took all those months ago.

Even before I flip through it, I know exactly which book this is; after all, I did help illustrate it. As I look at all the different plants, a small sheet of paper falls out. On the sheet is a small message:

_Peeta,_

_I knew that you would eventually get around to reading this. Giving up never seemed to be in your vocabulary, and it's inevitable that you'd make it back here._

_I've never been one to hope. But you were the one to give me hope with the bread, and now I hope that we will see each other again._

_You're my dandelion in the spring._

_—Katniss_

There's no denying her crisp writing style and sharp pen strokes. The message itself is short, inoffensive, and frankly seems a bit cheesy for her; however, it's still her writing, which is what matters.

I'll admit though that I can't help but frown a bit at the end statement. _I'm a dandelion? What does that even mean?_

That's when I notice the now dry and shriveled weed lying next to where the book was. And next to that, is an old stale biscuit; the thing looks so dry and aged that not even mold or mice have touched it. It had to have been her since I don't leave food lying around the studio. I pick it up with the intent of crumbling it outside for the birds — I appreciate the gesture, but I doubt it's of any use now — when the thing falls apart in my hand, revealing another slip of paper that seems folded over an object. After carrying through with my plan to scatter the crumbs, I dust the slip off and unfold it; my breath catches when I do.

Somehow, Katniss managed to not only keep her pin, but also snuck it in here. After looking at the golden mockingjay with disbelief for a while, I finally pocket the thing to take a look at the note on this slip; it sounds a lot more like her:

_Kick their ass._

_PS: I also hope that you and Gale manage to keep from killing each other._

I can't help but issue a soft chuckle at this; if only she knew how Gale and I would be now.

As I laugh, I notice the drops of moisture hitting the paper and causing the ink to run. It doesn't make sense; I'm not even laughing that hard.

Doesn't take me long to realize that I'm actually not laughing.

"Hey, boy, it's time to get a… move… on…" Haymitch's impatient statement seems to die in his throat when he sees me, and the usual sardonic expression he wears fades away. The look he has on right now doesn't suit him, so I try to lighten the atmosphere.

I fail at it.

Horribly.

All my mentor does is walk towards me with his arms outstretched. "Come here…"

As Haymitch's arms wrap around me, I throw all pretense to the wind and open up the floodgates while clutching at him as if he's a lifeline and I'd be swept away otherwise. He doesn't say anything but just holds me as he gently tousles my hair; I think he's the only thing that's keeping me standing while I blubber my eyes out like the pathetic ninny I am.

Between the sobs, I manage to gasp, "I just want this to be over…"

"I know… I know…"

I don't know how long I keep this up.

Frankly, I don't really care.

~oOo~

Haymitch keeps watch outside as I rinse my face and pat it dry to remove any evidence of my little… episode earlier. While it does get rid of a good chunk of the mess, my eyes are still pretty puffy and my nose red. Funnily enough, I feel a bit lighter on my feet than before; it's as if a valve has been opened and released a lot of pressure pent up inside of me.

Once I step outside, Haymitch mutters, "You know that this doesn't let you off the hook, right?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't want you getting all soft on me," I shoot back with a smirk.

As we walk back into town to prepare to leave, I see Gale approaching us via being pushed in his wheelchair by Madge.

Of course, upon seeing my face, looks of concern dominate their expressions. I guess I can divert them with the good news,

"Alright…" I chirp with a grin and a clap, "let's plan this wedding."

Gale and Madge take a look at me, then at each other, then at me again before quickly putting a couple feet between one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… much… fluff…
> 
> Considering the topic, next chapter's going to be one big cascade of fluff. Like a tsunami of chinchillas.


	33. Of Dessert and Dance

"Hey, how's my sister doi— wait, Posy… slow down… no, Posy, no! Stop! Don't—"

Even though I wouldn't blame him if he did object, Gale to his credit doesn't scream or give any overt reaction when Posy jumps — she had a good running head start — onto his lap and gives him a big hug. However, I can see the color rapidly drain from his face and beads of sweat appear on his forehead. Wait… never mind; I think I can hear a tiny and high-pitched whine emanating from him.

Still seemingly unaware of Gale's state, Posy immediately and unhesitatingly hops from his lap and towards me; I have only that split-second to react and catch her. Madge — she, Delly, Eli, and Thom are accompanying us here as representatives from Twelve — immediately begins checking on Gale as Haymitch offers up an unabashed guffaw and ignores the scathing look Hazelle throws at him.

I don't feel like burdening Posy with the fact that she just introduced a considerable dosage of pain to her eldest brother, so I state, "I'm glad to see you, Posy."

"Me too…" she giggles. "Mama tells me you my new big brother."

"Really… Well, is that what you want?"

She answers my question by throwing her arms around my neck and giving me a kiss on the cheek; I can't help but grin back.

I glance at Rory — who briefly pauses from admonishing Eli — and Vick. "What about you guys?"

They appear to enthusiastically agree while I look pointedly at Haymitch, the only person who could have possibly leaked that info ahead of time. Which also means…

"Mama also tells me you and Gale is in biiig trouble…"

_Oh…_

"Yes, they are." As Hazelle approaches us, it isn't hard to see the worry-induced anger and disappointment brewing under her placid demeanor. After being introduced to our guests, whom she greets warmly, she states, "Vick… Rory… why don't you take your sisters and help give these nice kids the grand tour? I need to have a word with your brothers." Her sincere usage of the plural format doesn't escape my attention; I'm conflicted as whether to be touched or scared about that fact right now. Also, this time, the paleness on Gale's face is likely not pain-related.

_… crap._

Vick takes Posy's hand while Rory cradles Beth in his arms when they leave with the guests — they seem a bit too eager to "go on the tour", despite our plaintive protestations — and the rest of the group following close behind. Everybody hurries off as fast as possible, and Haymitch makes it a point to mockingly wave goodbye at us. Even the hanger crew appears to be suddenly putting several aircraft between themselves and us.

Which just leaves us two as we face the displeased matriarch, who has a stony look on her face and her arms crosses with a finger tapping expectantly. "Well?"

In response to her monosyllabic query, we both totally do  _not_  issue identical sets of nervous laughter as we scratch the back of our heads. Nope, nosiree…

Ma Hawthorne's not impressed with our answer.

~oOo~

After we get our asses chewed out, and Gale gets dropped off at Medical, I head up to the boardroom to meet with Porus, Mayor Charlton, and Plutarch, who arrived a couple days before us, as we plan the upcoming occasion with the happy couple. I'll admit that it's quite entertaining to see the Commandant and Gamemaker going at it, and it's hard not to see the difference between Central and the Capitol illustrated in their debates — read: Porus vetoing or cutting back any of Plutarch's ideas — about how the ceremony is going to proceed.

That's not to say that the folks in Central don't like a good party; far from it, especially if booze is involved. However, Central's idea of a wedding tends to be a low-key event consisting of a traditional ceremony and reception with close friends and family — that's assuming the latter are even able to be present — which Plutarch considers dull. The Capitol's idea of a wedding, on the other hand, involves dressing up, partying for several days, and hosting a massive banquet for hundreds of invited guests, which Porus thinks of as impractical.

After consistent deliberation, and input from Annie and Finnick, the Commandant finally relents and allows the wedding to coincide with a "post-battle celebration" from the community. However, guests to the ceremony itself and dinner will still only be those close to the wedded couple or important individuals in the Rebellion; that leaves a very small group of outsiders that will be arriving.

To the Gamemaker's chagrin, the role of logistics for everything is given to the mayor. "Our community, our rules, our way of doing things. Your only purpose is to create your little propo; nothing more."

Watching Plutarch deflate under Porus scornful statement is a sight that almost makes me feel sorry for the guy. Almost.

To top things off, even before he can ask, the Commandant makes it clear that in no uncertain terms is the Gamemaker allowed in Central's control room; the fact that the citadel is pretty much an arena that people live in is something that hasn't escaped his attention.

At the very least, there's one thing that can be splurged on: the cake.

~oOo~

While I'm loath to find a food item that I don't like baking, there's something really special about creating and decorating a cake. And right now, I'm about to undertake probably my most ambitious project yet for two people that I care deeply for. The best part is that I now not only have access to top-of-the-line ingredients and tools, there is no limitation placed on me as to what I can do.

To say that this endeavor has me extremely excited would probably be a severe understatement.

Of course, I'm making this cake for other people, so it's not like I can just do whatever. So I sit down with Annie and Finnick to first see if they have any allergies, if there's any kind of food that they don't like, or there's any specific kind of cake they want me to make. Well… it turns out that I can just do whatever!

Still I need to have a general idea of things so that I can create a foundation to start off from. It may seem a bit silly, but to do that, I just ask general things about them: likes, dislikes, hobbies, favorite food, a bit more information about Four… Things like that. After our little talk, I now think I got a good idea of what I want to do.

The first thing I do is get in contact with one of the bakeries. I decide to go with the same one Gale visited in the very beginning. It turns out that there is one distinctive thing about the businesses here. Most are either holdovers from before Porus' overhaul, or they were founded by retired Guardians or their families. In this case, it's both; the bakery itself was here since Central's founding, and an adjacent candy shop was opened by a retired Guardian who ultimately married one of the bakers; the result's a couple kids — the same girl who brought us those biscuits — and a joining of the two shops. Anyways, they're happy to help out, and the dual business is actually going to be quite useful for this job.

For one thing I want to try and stay local, so I ask Gale and Rory for some help. Rory actually received his permit a couple weeks ago. To Gale's disappointment, and my slight amusement, the middle brother has not been receptive to bows or snares. What it turns out that he  _is_  good at is sharpshooting with a rifle; to the point that snipers from both Central and the squad have had their attentions piqued by his skill and are offering tips. In fact, the gun he's using right now is Mitchell's. Overall, and despite his hero-worship of Gale, Rory's a bit more mellow and meticulous than his big brother; it probably helps him hone his skill. It also helps with gathering items and his hobby of carving stuff; the former of skills which what I need. Sure enough, the two come back with a bountiful harvest of pecans and persimmons.

In the meantime, I get two helpers in the form of Vick and Posy. Unsurprisingly, Posy just wants to be where the action is, so I tend to delegate to her the duty of doing things like grinding the pecans to a crumble. However, Vick is surprisingly adept at this, in spite of both his age and not having any experience with baking; if it weren't my mother's hatred of all things Seam, he could have begun working at the bakery. So I actually delegate some of the measuring and mixing duties to him.

It is decided to that we are going to have a four-tier torte — the number of tiers representing their district — with a dual flavor; one side's for Annie and the other's for Finnick.

The one similarity for both sides is that there four relatively thin layers of sponge cake in each tier. That part is fairly easy, though there were a few cakes that fell apart before we could use them.

Now for Annie's side, it was obvious that she likes things that are both fresh and spiced. So I decided to make it a fruit torte. After we skin and de-seed the persimmons, they are caramelized into a butter with cloves, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom; I finally figured out what spice Porus was so fond of using. Due to the nature of the persimmon butter, some tartness is need to counteract it, so a key lime buttercream is used on top of the first layer of spongecake. After the second layer of cake is placed, then some vanilla buttercream is applied followed by a generous application of the persimmon butter; the process is repeated for the third layer. When the fourth layer is placed, more vanilla buttercream is added, but instead of the persimmon, we carefully cover it with sliced and glazed kiwifruit. The side is coated with the vanilla buttercream to "seal" everything in.

What's clear with Finnick is that he likes things sweet and rich. Incidentally, for the cake itself, the process is a bit simpler. We make a chocolate-hazelnut buttercream and apply it for all four layers and the sides. Crushed hazelnuts are applied with salted caramel on the very top to give a crust to it. The tricky part comes with the "accessory", which is a lattice-like praline net that spirals down the cake on Finnick's side. That part falls to the candy side of the store, which was willing to take up the task. After making the mixture with the caramelized sugar and crushed pecans, the candy makers create the net by carefully pouring it over the mock-up of the cake.

With the tortes themselves finished, I carefully apply strips of fondant to the side. It's pretty obvious that this was to be a seascape. So I decided to make each tier a level of the sea in Four and decorated in the style of old naturalist prints like  _Kunstformen der Natur_. The first level is of the sea floor and contains a myriad of corals, sponges, sea anemones, echinoderms, bivalves, chitons, crustaceans, sea slugs, and several bottom-dwelling fish. The second has a backdrop of kelp, with sharks, wrasse, rays, perch, and blennies swimming along with colorful jellyfish, comb jellies, and cephalopods. The third tier still has kelp in the background, though now there's diverse cetaceans and pinnipeds populating it. The last level is the surface, so it has the look of white-crested waves, with otters frolicking as gulls, puffins, ducks, and terns fly around. The strips are carefully applied so each seam closes where there's a divide between flavors.

Finally, when it comes to arranging the cake, the bottom three tortes are first cored so that the tier plates can stack; the cores are shared amongst all the helpers, with positive results to my relief. We make it so that the tortes are at forty-five-degree angles from each other. So when the spiraling net is carefully applied, it stays on Finnick's side of the cake. To finish it off, a sailboat made out of blown sugar is placed on top, and the entire ensemble gets put in storage.

And just in time; because I am exhausted. It seems the same for Vick and Posy, who appear to be crashing after feasting on all that excess batter, buttercream, praline, and fondant. The shop owners are kind enough to allow me to rest a bit on the couch at the front of the store. As I slip in and out of consciousness, Posy crawls onto my lap and curls up against my chest, while Vick sits next to me and leans up against my side; next thing I know, both are passed out and my arms wrap almost instinctively around them. Before sleep takes me in full, I'm vaguely aware of a small flash of light and somebody putting a blanket over us.

~oOo~

"I think we should trade."

"What?" I send a suspicious glance towards Johanna. Whenever she suggests something, it usually does not bode well for… well, anybody.

"We should trade outfits for the wedding. We're about the same height anyways."

Now that garners a laugh. "You seem to forget a slight detail: you're getting a dress." Since there really isn't any set theme we have to follow, I'm wearing the suit worn to Four during the Victory Tour, while Johanna's currently browsing for some dresses. Only reason I'm with her is because the betrothed are preoccupied, and the victor from Seven needs a second opinion.

"Exactly!" she chirps with a smile as if I'm in agreement. "Considering that I'm representing the groom, and you're representing the bride, it makes sense that I'd be the one in the suit and you'd be the one in the dress."

 _Hell no…_  "That's… terrible logic!"

"Not really. I know that I look smoking hot in a suit. With some shaving here and there, you probably wouldn't look half bad in a dress."

"And what makes you think that?"

Johanna gestures with her talon-like hand — it's as if she wanted to make her prosthesis as menacing as possible, and Medical was only too happy to oblige — right at my chest. "Boobs."

 _What._  "These…" I poke my chest for emphasis, "are pecs. See? No give."

"Hey, it doesn't matter whether you have pillows or steaks stored there; the fact remains that your chest is way bigger than mine. I mean, look at this:"  _Of course_  she has to clasp her hands over her breasts and squeeze in the process of her explanation. "There are walls that are less flat than me. You on the other hand… I bet that I can free-throw a breadcrumb at your collar and have it fall all the way down your shirt."

The only answer I can give to that is a scowl and, "I'm not wearing a dress."

"Whatever… offer's still on the table." Before she saunters off to look at another section, Johanna pauses with a smirk to poke me right in the nipple. "Booop."

I spend the rest of the day with my arms crossed over my chest.

~oOo~

Our guests arrive the day before the wedding.

Unfortunately, due to… Capitol-related reasons, there's nobody, be it friends or family, from Four left for Annie or Finnick. Thus, really the only family they have left is us victors. So besides the ones already present, the victors from Two are invited. Yes, even Enobaria, though we have to make sure she isn't within Johanna's proximity; their animosity apparently predates the Quell due to some incident involving a soft-boiled egg. Unsurprisingly, Olympia and Cinnabar also brought their families along; surprisingly, Marcus is with them. Apparently, on the basis of high merit — him deciding not to shoot me probably counts — the guy was let go with Lyme's approval, though he is normally restricted to the Victor's Village as he still expresses no interest in joining the Rebellion.

Besides the fact that she's a victor, Lyme was already coming due to her commander status; it made travel arrangements for the other victors quite easy. With the eastern part of the nation pretty much now under control, Paylor has also decided to be present. Of course, once this event is over with, both commanders are going to be heading back out as soon as possible.

Even though the invitation has been given, nobody from Thirteen's Command has accepted. In fact the only person from Thirteen, besides the members of our squad, here is Dr. Aurelius, who already came with Plutarch. The doctor has worked quite a bit with Annie, Finnick, and Johanna in terms of their mental recovery while they resided in Thirteen and still has regular correspondence with them. He also has tried to get me to schedule an appointment, though I admit that I've avoided him as much as possible; I normally just gave the pretense of being too busy to meet up, and Coin wasn't in any hurry for me to get help.

In any case, all of the guests, even Enobaria, appear to understand the ground rules, so their arrival and presence is without any negative incident. However, a disproportionate number of bird mutts are appearing to constantly crap all over the toothy victor and nobody else. In a strange amount of coincidence, Johanna is currently exhibiting an uncharacteristic level of camaraderie with Ned right now; normally, those two are practically at each other's throats.

When night comes around, Johanna, along with Chaff, Haymitch, the Central crew, and the other younger victors, drags Finnick to the bars for his bachelor party. I, plus the older victors and our families, instead stay with Annie to play board and drinking games.

I'm such an exciting guy.

~oOo~

"You alright, Jo?" I have to ask because Johanna's being uncharacteristically fidgety as she stands next to me while we wait for the bride and groom to enter.

"I'll be fine. It's just… this is a  _lot_  of water."

 _No kidding…_  It was decided to that the wedding ceremony was to be held in the shallow water observatory of the northwestern sector in the inland sea. It is a structure that's about fifty feet deep, with all the walls and ceiling being made up of windows looking into the kelp forest that surrounds it. Sunlight illuminates the seascape as vertical stands of vine-like giant kelp extend all the way to the surface, colorful invertebrates and algae encrust the bottom, and diverse school of fish swarm all around; occasionally, the dolphins, seals, and sea lions would stop to peer through the glass at us. In the middle of the floor is a large moon pool, which allows divers and submersibles to enter into the environment through here. For obvious reasons, I actually spent a good chunk of time here for inspiration when making the designs for the fondant.

Normally, a wedding ceremony in Four would apparently be held in a building or beach at the seaside. However, they wanted to have a unique backdrop. They did still ask Johanna ahead of time whether it was okay to host it here. If she didn't like the idea, she didn't show it when she agreed with only the slightest bit of hesitation. Since it's a bit too late to back out now, hopefully she'll keep it together for her sake.

I know that she is not going to tolerate pity, so I instead try to divert her attention another way; "These nuptials aren't getting you all gooey, are they?"

"Shut it, Lover Boy. There's one person here I know who's going to turn into a gooey quivering mass of emotion, and it's not me."

"I distinctly remember somebody getting very mushy and teary-eyed during the party last night." Looks like Brutus has decided to join in on the fun. The engineer's sitting with Ned to the side to provide music for the ceremony, with the two carrying a dulcimer and fiddle, respectively.

At the quip, I turn to Johanna in mock shock, with wide eyes and my mouth agape. "Ooh, do tell!"

Before she can respond with some profanity-laced retort — her water-induced anxiety seems to be forgotten in the process — a couple cameras float in, which means that things are about to commence. So, the two of us position ourselves by the doorway to greet the guests who begin filing into the chamber in small groups due to the pressure sealing of the place. Johanna actually handles herself quite well with almost a negligible amount of snark; though she does flip Plutarch off via "straightening" her still-very-short hair. With the layout of the place, the guests position themselves in a single-file row on either side of the pool.

Finally, a jittery-looking Finnick comes in and is maneuvered to one side of the pool by his best maid. A minute later, Annie walks through the doorway and loops her arm through mine before I escort her to the other side. Once we are opposite from the groom and his chaperone, both pairs proceed forward, parallel to each other towards the far end of the pool, while music plays and Brutus sings the traditional District Four wedding song. With the dappled sunlight falling on her and her serene expression, Annie looks both beautiful and positively otherworldly; she's wearing an aquamarine strapless dress that falls just to her knees, and her hair is carefully festooned with seashells and sharks' teeth that glitter in the dappled light. Finnick's in a knee-length tunic worn over a pair of shorts — at least, I think he's wearing shorts underneath — with the outfit a similar color to Annie's dress; the tunic's girdle is adorned with carved ivory and iridescent mother-of-pearl. Both the bride and groom are also barefoot. Despite the fact that they look completely underdressed by Capitol wedding standards — I can just see Plutarch and Fulvia gnashing their teeth at the outfit selection — there's a good reason for it.

When we get to the far side of the pool, Annie and Finnick step in and onto the entry platform, which allows the clear and chilly seawater to go almost up to their knees, before walking towards each other until they are face-to-face; at that point, both of their demeanors are replaced with a joyous one that exudes pure radiance. The individual conducting the ceremony — a chaplain familiar with the district's traditions; the guy wears a white silk stole over his Guardian uniform — steps forward with a grass net handwoven by the couple ahead of time and carefully drapes it over them; from there, the majority of his speech and ordainment over the wedding in conducted in a far-ancient language that I now know as Latin. Once the vows are exchanged — Annie's are whispered and Finnick's are signed — and they simultaneously light a candle between them before sending it adrift, the two gently sweep their hands across the surface and bring the cool seawater up to each other's lips. Right after that, I nod to Ned, who begins fiddling with his wrist device.

Okay, now the next part is not a traditional wedding custom in Four, but nobody could resist the idea once Finnick suggested it. Because, at Ned's signal, two sea otters swim down from the sea's surface, pick something up from the seabed, and resurface in the pool; there's a collective gasp and uttering of of "aws" from most of the outsiders at the sight of them. The two unbelievably-fluffy critters proceed to swim over to the couple, hop onto dry poolside, and stand up on their hind legs to hold out the rings in their dexterous and tiny paws. By now, even Johanna's about to swoon from the overload of cute; I imagine that the Capitolites watching right now are probably shorting-out. After the otters have given their gifts and returned to the water —of course, not before they mooch a shellfish from me and Johanna — Annie and Finnick put those gold bands on each other's fingers. And then they kiss.

As they kiss, that radiance that had been consistently emanating from the couple flares into full unrivaled force. Every spectacle showcased beforehand pales in comparison to the pure, contagious happiness shown by the two. I'd bet that this radiance could even warm the dreariest corner of Thirteen if we had to host the event there.

I'm so caught up in the festivity and my happiness for them that it's not until afterwards that I even notice the creature — some kind of snake-fish-squid thingy — which had decided to crawl out of the pool and wrap itself around my right leg for warmth. I casually — I'm too happy right now to be annoyed — pry and unwind the mutt off before tossing it back into the water, where it swims off; a few months ago, I probably would have emanated a very… manly shout at the sight of it.  _Definitely been here too long…_

Once the congratulations have been sent around and several photo ops are taken, we retreat to the lobby of the Tower, where the dinner — even though it's still a bit early in the afternoon — awaits. Again, with the dinner, a contrast is set between here and the Capitol. Instead of tables loaded with a selection of food that may or may not get eaten, what we are provided with is a series of courses, with each course having a serving portion of food on it. The only thing that is already sitting on the table is a set of bread.

To start things off, it was decided that Annie's and Finnick's district be showcased in the first course; of course, the stuff was obtained from the inland sea, not Four itself. So we each get a small crab cake, grilled abalone, several slices of lightly-seared opah, and a couple plump oysters that have been broiled in butter, parsley, and breadcrumbs.

Following that is a hearty leek and potato soup that has had its constituent parts previously roasted then simmered in stock, before being blended and served with a dollop of crème. Right afterwards is a wild greens salad with a light ginger dressing; a bit on the bitter side, but it's supposedly healthy and helps make the taste buds a blank slate for the next part.

As for the main course, well, we actually have Rory to thank for that. The kid got his first major kill a couple of days ago in the form of a young bull elk, with almost a couple hundred pounds of meat obtained from it. It's pretty funny watching Gale look upon his little brother with a mixture of pride and no small amount of envy; that animal's apparently several times bigger than anything he's gotten. Besides the meat, Rory's also gotten a good set of antlers and ivory that he plans to work on later.

Anyways, due to the impressive nature of the elk, it was decided to serve part of it at this dinner. So, after it has been slow-cooked for over six hours in red wine and a medley of various herbs and vegetables, slices of the roast are served on a bed of caramelized shallots and mushrooms; roasted parsnips and creamed spinach grace the side.

It's quite interesting watching Paylor's and Aurelius' reaction to the dinner. The rest of us, whether we're victors and their families, Capitolites, or just people who have gotten acclimated in Central, are used to a hearty meal. Paylor, on the other hand, has spent all of her life either living in crippling poverty or fighting in Eight, and this is probably the first time Dr. Aurelius has left Thirteen. So while we are already fairly impressed with this magnificent dinner, they are reacting to as if it were the most wonderful thing in the world; it's clear that they have to restrain themselves to keep from scarfing down whatever they are given.

Besides the food itself, which is delectable, probably the best thing about this dinner is that we aren't filmed nor do we talk about battles or politics, war crimes or strategy, Games or starvation… Instead, we talk about the newlyweds, with advice thrown in from those already married. We talk about personal interests and amusing anecdotes. Hell, we talk about random useless factoids. Seated at the table aren't military and civic leaders, victors, soldiers, Gamemakers, or symbols of a wartime faction; instead, gathered together are just a bunch of people congratulating a couple joining together in marriage. Sure, it's something that's trivial and fleeting in the grand scheme of things, especially considering all that is going on. However, sometimes it's the little things in life that keep us going.

Once the last plate has been cleared away, we are just barely alerted to the camera's coming back on before the highlight course of the dinner arrives: dessert. As the cake is wheeled in, I take great satisfaction in the gasps of the group when they lay their eyes upon it. Best of all is the look of elation on the faces of the newlyweds; not just out of pride out of my creation's recognition, but knowing that it's bringing happiness to two people who definitely deserve it. Before I know it, Finnick's picking me up in a big hug, and once I'm finally set back down, Annie envelops me in another. I do make it a point to bring forward my two little helpers — Vick and Posy get hugs of their own — and plug the bakery-slash-candy store for their invaluable service.

With the ceremonial blade provided, the couple makes the first cut right at the divide, and then they proceed to cut a small slice on either side of it. With a piece of Annie's side in Finnick's, and vice versa, the two proceed to feed each other before playfully smashing the slices into each other's face; despite knowing what's coming, I admit to cringing a bit when I see bits and pieces of the cake fall to the ground, though my feeling of unease is tempered when they let me know their approval of my masterpiece. Soon everybody is digging into it, though the top tier is saved for the couple of honor.

By the time we finally emerge from the Tower, the sun is just about ready to set and the plaza is completely crowded with people, with vendors selling their wares, musicians scattered around, and kegs and temporary bars interspersed at regular intervals. It's about a couple hours till the next stage of the event, so we have time to just mill around while the couple get congratulations from random passerby. In the meantime, the quartet from Central sets up, on the first tier of the steps at the front of the Tower, to be the main entertainment; Brutus alternates between the dulcimer and a steel guitar, Ned's still on the fiddle, Luce — now he's not only switched his hair back to something unnatural, but has patterned it in the style of flames, with a mixture of blue, yellow, orange, and scarlet; the likeness becomes even more apparent whenever he lights it up — plays a regular guitar, and Joe alternates between a mandolin and tambourine. They must have been given some music from Twelve ahead of time, because occasionally Madge contributes a few keys on a electronic piano brought out.

When the sky completely darkens, the last part of the show commences. For some reason, at this time, the leaders of Central, commanders, older victors, Plutarch, and even Dr. Aurelius all head back into the Tower. When I move to follow them, Haymitch stops me. "Just tonight, let us old farts handle this, and enjoy yourself for once. You kids have earned it." Before I can object he hurries to run up the steps and catch up with the group before the doors shut behind him. I decide to take his advice and push any Rebellion-related thoughts out of my head when the call for the first dance is sent out.

Without any further ado, the majority of the plaza darkens, the crowd at the foot of the steps moves back so as to form a large semicircle, and spotlights from the Tower shine down to illuminate the two individuals in the middle of said semicircle.

Once everybody is in place, Finnick nods to Brutus, and the music immediately starts on a rapid and very upbeat tempo. During that time, one can definitely notice the arena aspect of Central. Lights flash in a rhythmic manner across the façade of the Tower and nearby buildings. What's more, images are projected and animated on the force field and the sky turns into a luminescent canvas of swirling color and blossoming designs moving in synch with the beat and melody of the music; the way the graphics either swirl around or radiate outwards from the main spire of the Tower makes it seem like we're in the eye of a storm made out of light. However, all of that doesn't detract from the main show happening at the ground level.

Instead of starting of with the couple dancing together, what unfolds in front of us is Finnick putting on a show for Annie and dancing like he's being judged for performance and creativity. I mean, I know the he's pretty much at the peak of physical fitness, with more than a considerable level of speed, agility, and reflexes. Still…  _damn… guy's got moves…_  To top it off, his dancing seems to match up perfectly with both the song and the images in the sky. And the whole time, whatever the cameras catch isn't just broadcasted live, but is projected on various buildings and the spot right above the Hub.

Finally, Finnick clasps hands with Annie, and the music slows down a bit and gains more of a smooth melody to it. As they dance together, it's clear that Annie's just as fast and nimble on her feet, able to keep with Finnick's strong and rapid movement; several times, Finnick actually picks her up, swings her around and tosses her in the air, yet she still is able to keep steady. Soon, what I see isn't two people dancing with each other but a singular, yet dualistic, entity moving with fluid purpose. Completely and utterly indivisible.

Gradually the band slows the tune, with the newlyweds soon just rocking side to side in a close embrace as they turn in a circle and rest their foreheads against each other, until most of the lights have dimmed, the sky has turned dark, and the music fades to nothing; at least, until the couple kisses again.

Right at the moment their lips make contact, the band resumes playing full blast, and the sky appears to shatter and explode into an almost blinding display; while much of this performance was likely planned in advance, the couple's happiness is definitely not staged. At that signal, everybody else joins in to dance. And I mean  _everybody_. Gale dances with Madge and is probably the happiest I've seen since… ever, and it shows in how his normally nimble and graceful movements are full of a silly level of pep. Vick and Rory are do-si-do-ing with the Cartwrights, a couple kids from school, and an older girl whom I believe is Cinnabar's daughter. Even an inebriated Johanna is moving to the beat with a just-as-hammered Enobaria, Thom, and Olivine; Marcus ends up being sandwiched between the trio with a scowl on his face but finally decides to go along with the flow.

I admit that I'm really the only person not joining in, but it doesn't matter. What I see in front of me is enough. Because, at this moment, there's no Rebellion. There's no Snow or Coin. There's no killing or political scheming. There's just here and now.

Of course, there are some who are not satisfied with me just standing here. The tug on the hem of my jacket is testament to that. "Peeta, why are you not having fun?"

I smile down at Posy. "Believe me, I'm enjoying myself and having enough fun."

"Then why you crying?"

 _Huh…_ Indeed, my face is quite wet with streaks of saline. This has been happening a bit more often lately than I'd like. Then again, there are way worse reasons to spring a leak. "Not all tears are sad, Pose."

"Oh…" After a short pause, Posy holds her hands straight up at me with grasping motions. "You should dance. Dance with me."

"Aw, fine…" I groan in mock-exasperation before picking her up and spinning her around as she giggles the entire time.

A brightening light signifies that a camera is floating towards us, which causes me to grin at my new little sister as an idea comes to my head.

"Hey, do you want to say hi to somebody special?"

* * *

***The Capitol: Now. However, it's somebody different…***

I couldn't be happier for Finnick and Annie. Granted, I really don't know Annie that well, but it's clear that Finnick's love for her is genuine. Someone like him deserves to be happy. Also, he can really dance.

Everybody here in the Capitol has become completely entranced by the wedding; I can see them from here, all gathered outside and watching the images projected everywhere. Admittedly, I'm no different, though my main reason probably is. Sure, again, I'm still happy to see the two victors from District Four getting wed, and those strange people from District Three definitely know how to put on a show without devolving to the grotesque excess that exemplifies those here. But in the end, the reason I watch this is because of _him_.

While I have not been directly mistreated in any way here — in fact, I have access to practically all amenities of the mansion — the fact remains that I'm still a prisoner. And since the beginning, I've had this feeling gnawing away at the pit of my stomach; almost as if I were starving no matter how much I ate, and I'm eating quite a bit. At first I couldn't pinpoint the reason, and it almost drove me insane. However, the first time I saw Peeta in that interview and saw that he was more or less okay, I felt that gnawing ease. From then on, I knew that I feel a hunger for the boy with the bread. That was all the more exemplified when I saw him and Gale in District Eight; while I was definitely happy to see Gale, it didn't quite garner the same reaction as when I saw Peeta giving cookies out to the children, and I remember that horrible feeling when he went into that burning building.

The thing is: I worry about him. Sure, I'm glad that he's not in the Capitol's hands. However, each time I see Peeta, it's clear that the war is taking its toll. No longer do I see the bright-eyed boy who brings bread to my house in the Victors' Village. Instead, I see a calculating victor that's constantly at his wits end, with a haunted and broken look in his eyes; that was all the more clear when we met in Centerpoint. No, I don't think he's lost himself as he fears happening; if the propos mean anything, he's still as kind, compassionate, and determined as ever. In fact, I think it's those qualities which are slowly killing him and possibly leading him into insanity. That's not even getting into his episode in District Two or the message from our home district.

Now, however, my fears abate. Yes, Peeta still has that weary look; at this point, I don't think it will ever go away. However it's tempered by the easy smile that has never left his face so far. That beautiful cake is further sign of the boy that I know. All of this shows that there's hope for him. The fact that he's wearing my pin also shows that he got my message like I knew he would.

"Hey, do you want to say hi to someone special?"

Peeta's question shakes me out of my thoughts, and I look to see him holding Posy in his arms. Soon he's joined with Gale, Madge — that part still surprises me — and the rest of the Hawthornes. Finnick and Annie later wander into the group, followed by Johanna.

As I watch the whole group grinning at the camera, I can't help but still attempt to process the relationship between Peeta and Gale. If someone would have told me before the Quell that those two would be friends, I'd have probably just walked away because it'd be too much of a waste of my time to laugh in their face. It's understandable that they work together in the Rebellion, but now… Now, however, they have their arms slung over each other's shoulders while grinning like idiots as if they were long-lost brothers or something. I'd be happy for them, but I still need to get over the shock.

"So Pose, what would you like to say?"

At Peeta's query, little Posy simply starts waving. "Hi Katniss! We miss you. Want to see you again!"

Peeta looks back at me with his dimpled smile. "You hear that Katniss? Well, don't worry; we will see each other again. Till then, stay alive."

Ignoring the pang that goes through me at the sight of everybody smiling and waving, I can't help but feel that, judging from the way he's holding Posy, Peeta would be a wonderful fa—

"Hey! Stop that!" I bark at my bloated belly — it just recently decided to turn into a fully-gorged tick — which is acting up again.

It's as if Haymitch had turned into a butterfly and is slowly bouncing around in a drunken haze, occasionally pausing to use my bladder as a squeeze toy. Oh well, at least I'm no longer puking. Also, Mother's has been invaluable in getting me though this. In the beginning, my pride and some lingering grudge prevented me from seeking her assistance, but at this point, her experience and familiar face — as opposed to all of those Capitol doctors — has helped me along.

I admit that the boy growing inside of me is another thing that concerns me.

When I first found out what Snow did to me, my initial reaction… wasn't my finest moment. After time passed and allowed things to sink in, I still considered myself to be tainted.

Now I just wonder what others are thinking.

In any case, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

And if this last message is any indication, there is one thing's clear:

Peeta Mellark has not given up on me.

 _Well…_ I think with a smirk… _Two can play that game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with more food porn!
> 
> Couldn't resist Johanna making the moobs joke. Also the idea of Jo in a suit and Peeta in a dress…
> 
> Normally, someone like Peeta would likely not be able to identify all those organisms, but he's been in Central long enough.
> 
> Yes, I based Four's wedding practice on Catholic ceremonies, though it would be without the theology. Rationale is its supposed similarity to Ten, which I put around Texas and much of the plains southwest.
> 
> Writing Katniss was an… interesting challenge.


	34. The Tour

Just a day after the festivities conclude, it's already time to get back to work. In this case, it's to take advantage of that final push towards the Capitol.

Barring some flare-ups here and there from loyalist militias, mainly in One and Four — there have been surprisingly few in Two — the nation's pretty much secured by rebel forces. All that's left is the Capitol. However, with the retreat and entrenchment of truly Capitol-loyal forces as well as the fully-functioning grid in the region, just attempting to barge in there would be extremely counterproductive in the long term. So, the various military leaders are drawing up plans for the final assault, during which time's utilized for training the troops.

I myself decide to utilize that time to prepare a little project of my own: a "Victory Tour" that would be broadcasted for the whole nation to see. Though instead of the original purpose of taunting districts and fostering division, my idea's to motivate them and foster a sense of unity. Also the logistics of the tour is going to involve a different mode of transportation and order of districts.

When it comes time to depart, I stand at the steps of the Tower to make my farewell address. It's not hard to see the difference between my first arrival and now. Back then, while they were welcoming, many here just looked at me as "that idealistic outsider". Now… judging from the way the crowd gives a great big cheer when I raise my hand in greeting, I think I have their attention; probably haven't lost my outsider status, but a feeling of family and inclusion is there. I don't exactly know what I did to earn it, but I'm not complaining.

So I not only thank Central for their substantial contribution for the Rebellion — whether it is wrestling the national grid from the Capitol's control or lowering the burden on the rest of the rebel forces by providing offensive measures of their own — but I also thank for their genuine hospitality while we resided here. I thank them for the new friends I've been able to make during my time here and in the last few missions. Of course, I thank them for the new leg and for helping Finnick and Johanna out. And I don't fail to thankl them for putting on the most spectacular wedding and party I ever had the pleasure of participating in; this last part raises the volume of the cheer.

Once I finish my speech, and Gale has his few words to say — considering that he fit in here even better — Porus gives the closing address before dismissing us. However, before we leave, she and I shake hands; during that exchange, I swear I see a small smirk on her face as she says, "It seems that I made a wise choice in taking you in and making this alliance."

I give a smirk of my own back. "Well, to be fair, we still aren't done."

"True. Still, I'd like you to know that you and your friends are always welcome here."

Even with the increased receptivity of the community toward me, the Commandant's statement, plus its surprising level of warmth, still catches me a bit off guard. "I-I um… well… thanks."

"Of course, this assumes that you don't manage to screw up miserably. In which case, I will still have you killed."

I remember when such statements would scare the shit out of me; granted, she's still pretty scary, and I still don't doubt her ability and willingness to carry out such promises. But, now at her comment, my smirk just widens into a grin. "I'd be disappointed if you got soft on me."

At my quip, I see the corners of Porus' mouth turn up just a bit more. "Stay safe, Mellark, and good luck." She slightly pauses on her way back into the Tower to add, "Oh, and try to make sure my son doesn't do anything too idiotic."

~oOo~

I wouldn't say that Thirteen's reception is the complete opposite from Central's, but there's still an obvious marked difference. Despite cheering at my arrival and speech at the surface of the district, the crowd is comparatively reserved to the point of the atmosphere being a bit on the chilly side. Then again, I'm not exactly surprised; I haven't set foot here since leaving a couple months ago. If anything, I'm a bit surprised that, despite said chilliness, many people still greet me warmly when I talk to them in person. Actually, quite a few soldiers seem to be looking at me positively.

"They recognize that your actions, be it when you got Central on our side or halted the attack on the victors of District Two, saved many lives in the long term," Boggs informs me. "Of course, they can't display that gratitude overtly."

Command's definitely not bothering to hide their contempt towards me — Simms in particular is looking at me with nothing less than disgust — and I'm not exactly sorry for all the times I have snubbed and gone around them. When Coin moves to shake my hand after her portion of the speech, I can see the extreme loathing in her eyes poorly masked under a thin veneer of civility. What she doesn't mask is her desire to increase her oversight over me — apparently she doesn't trust Boggs to do that job — through a performance evaluation. So there's going to be an auditor to tag along with us and probably report my every move back to Thirteen.  _So much fun…_

Considering that a bureaucrat has been assigned to the squad, I'm expecting somebody like an old man or matron. What I don't expect is young-ish woman that has to be in her twenties or thirties — it's a bit hard to tell — with medium brown hair and eyes; granted, they probably need someone relatively fit to keep up with us in the field. I wouldn't call her unattractive, but her appearance is so nondescript that she could probably do anything with. Let her hair grow longer and add a nice dress to go along with the low-key make-up she already has on, and she'd probably look like a classy lady; conversely, if she cut her hair really short and wore looser clothes, she'd probably be able to easily pass as a teenage boy.

"Hi, my name is Jane and it's great to meet you in person, Soldier Mellark," she greets with a relaxed smile as the hovercraft takes off towards our next destination. While I do greet her back, she could likely sense our group's unease since she sighs, "Yes, I know you guys don't want anybody hovering over your shoulders; I'm just doing my job, and I hope things can go smoothly between us all. Also, between you and me, I don't think you've done anything wrong so far, and your girlfriend did save my family's lives."

"She did?" I ask, surprised at that bit of news.

Jane nods. "While our district does have a warning system to detect incoming ballistics, Katniss' warning gave an advance warning which bought a precious extra amount of time. This helped since my family was one of the last people into the shelters. Much of the district is in her debt."

As I mull over this new bit of info, I give the auditor a warmer smile than before. "How about you drop the 'Soldier', and just call me either 'Mellark' or 'Peeta', and I'll see if I can get the rest of the squad to thaw a bit. I can't say we'll welcome you in, but we should lessen the mean looks whenever you're doing a progress report."

She looks understandably relieved at this reponse. "That's fair. And to be honest, the president does seem to be asking for a bit more than necessary. So as long as you don't anything like blatantly humiliate the Rebellion or District Thirteen on camera, I'll keep my reports truthful, yet honest, and may look past certain… deviations you may take. Sound good?"

 _Looks like I'm not the only one chafing under Coin's overbearing nature._  "Deal."

~oOo~

Considering that it was the first district I went to make my field propos, it's appropriate that Eight be the first district to visit after Thirteen.

While the district is still not in what one would consider optimal shape — hell, frankly didn't look that good even before the war — it's clear that the lack of major engagements the last few months has treated Eight quite well. Reconstruction has already commenced, and this time, there is a better-structured hospital facility in place; doesn't stop Luce from doing some inspections of his own and sending recommendations towards Central for extra supplies.

The stability provided also shows in the crowd, which doesn't look as ragged and worn-down like during the Victory Tour or my propo visit there, which is always a plus. Even though there are no victors, I manage to get Cecilia's family up with me and present them with a small cake that I pre-made just for them; the look of elation on their faces gives me a much-needed boost of energy.

Afterwards, Paylor provides me with a finely-knitted scarf for me. I take it graciously not just because winter's right around the corner, but also due to its value as a "district token". The idea of a token was one that I had as a way to show solidarity with the districts. So besides the mockingjay pin for Twelve, I received a piece of pyrolytic carbon while in Thirteen to dangle from my belt and represent that district.

Of course, as I wrap the scarf around me, I'd be hard pressed to be presented with a more comfy token.

~oOo~

It's good to be back home again, and the repair work on Twelve seems to have been progressing quite rapidly in the past couple weeks. Besides the intermingling crowd of both merchants and Seam residents, I see various rebel units from other districts that are putting to use the captured facilities; already, they are coining this place Fort Mockingjay. Whatever it becomes, I'm just glad that the coal mines have been shut down, and those here are neither starving or living under a tyrannical head Peacekeeper.

A great big cheer goes up when Gale and I grip our hands together to hold them up in the air in a triumphant manner. Flanking us are Madge and Haymitch, with the mayor's daughter next to Gale and the old victor next to me. While they aren't moving back from Central until we finish this war, the rest of the Hawthorne clan is standing with us on the podium as well.

Here, I definitely don't need to put much thought into what I say.

~oOo~

Six, Seven, and Nine go in a general blur. The people are excited to see me, but the excitement really doesn't stand out any compared to the previous places I've been. Johanna's appearance in Seven really doesn't garner too much of a reaction either; she later confides that, while she likes the trees, there really no love lost between her and her home district due to their… wartime actions concerning other victors.

The districts still do recognize my use of the tokens since I receive, respectively, a titanium rivet, a fragrant sachet, and a figurine made out of woven wheat stalks; Jo actually made the sachet herself. After Nine, we head back to Three, but it isn't Central that we go to.

As I watch us cross a fence and see woods turn into the dense cityscape that's West City, I hear a synthesized voice sigh right next to me. "… I haven't been here since I was fourteen."

I turn towards Joe with a non-vocalized query, to which he adds, "I was one of those kids who got lucky and managed to escape to Central due to my talents. Can't exactly say that I miss West City; a cramped hellhole's what it is. I doubt the decimation put a dent on that."

I have to wince a bit at his statement. "I take it you didn't lose anybody there."

"Nah… they were already gone before I left."  _Oh…_

Minutes pass before I finally note, "You didn't come here just to talk about West City, did you."

A bit more time passes before he sighs again — I'm still trying to figure out how he does that — and shakes his head. "Look Mellark, I'm sorry I treated you like shit early on."

I can't help but wave that off. "Well, you're not anymore, which is all that matters. And it's understandable that you were suspicious of me as an outsi—"

"That wasn't it."

"It wasn't?"

"Okay, yeah I was a bit suspicious. But main thing was that right before you came over, the topic of 'Peeta Mellark' was all that I heard at home. After a while, it became a bit tiring."

"Wait… you were jealous?"

The engineer gives off non-synthesized snort and follows up with a synthesized laugh. "Yeah, pretty ridiculous ain't it? And yes, it was utterly baseless. I mean, you ain't even…"

My eyebrows rise a bit questioningly at the way he trails off. "Aren't even… what?"

"Nevermind…" His tone indicates that the subject is final. "Anyways, again, sorry. Know what… you ain't half-bad, Mellark."

"It's alright, and thanks." After a pause, I finally need to ask something and hope that Joe's improved view towards me would help. "So… I've been wondering about something…"

"Why do I have to talk through this?" He vocalizes my question for me with a smirk.

 _Well that was fast._  "Uh… yeah."

"Long story short: there was an accident in the lab, and I ended up getting a lung-full of fog prototype." If that's the fog I think he's talking about… My hand involuntarily goes to my throat. Joe notices and grimaces in assent. "No, it wasn't a pleasant experience, and it practically destroyed my larynx. Actually I'm able to vocalize, but… you  _really_  don't want to hear it."

"That's okay; you don't have to show me. But thanks anyways for telling me this."

"No problem." This time, he actually seems to have a full smile on his face as he turns towards the window; at that moment, the sun shining in makes me catch a glint of polished metal dangling off his collar.

At the sight of it, I can't help but blurt out, "What's that?"

"What's wha—" The moment Joe turns to see where my finger's pointing, his smile slips away to be replaced by a now-guarded expression, and he adjusts his collar to hide the small bauble.

Immediately, I backtrack. "I-I'm sorry. You don't—"

"It's alright," he mutters before taking a deep breath. "Once this war is over, I'll let you know. Sound fair?"

It's clear that I won't get anywhere on that subject without pissing him off, so I just concur: "Sounds fair."

As the hovercraft begins its descent, I add, "So… with you being from here and all, do you want to be on sta—"

"Hell. No."

Like the cities in Six, West City had been built from a city that came before, and there are reminders here and there in the form of ruins, old monuments, and reconstructed buildings alongside more recent skyscrapers; I actually do my speech in front of an ancient war memorial atop a hill and opposite from a just-as-ancient train station. Even though the fighting had ceased and the fires have been put out a while ago, the area's still a wreck. However, as I stand with Beetee in front of the crowd, thoughts about the state of the city take a back seat to the enthusiastic reception, mostly dealing with my deal with Central. I end up presenting a wreath in recognition of the tragedy of the decimation and receive a small length of coiled wire as my token.

I have a wreath already prepped for Eleven as well.

~oOo~

In Eleven, I get my first major surprise of the tour.

As I made my speech in front of the enthusiastic crowd, in which I traded the wreath for a peach pit carved with a flame-wreathed mockingjay on it, I not only had Chaff with me but also the families of Rue and Thresh; somehow, they managed to escape both the crackdown during the Tour as well as the decimation after the Quell. While I gave the families their cake — judging from the looks on their faces, which were even more ecstatic than Cecilia's kids', it was the first time they got something like this — a horn was blown, alerting the crowd. As they parted, a line of unfamiliar vehicles approached. Several of the cars in the motorcade are definitely armed and a hush seems to have gripped the crowd; however, judging from the relaxed nature of the soldiers here, this was expected.

So now I'm staring at this car of unknown origin. Emblazoned on the side is a many-rayed sun rising over a sea and surrounded by a crocodilian, tapir, and feathered serpent. Once the back door is opened by who I guess is an aide, a middle-aged man in a white uniform steps out. At the sight of the uniformed individuals, the eyes of my uniformed squad mates go wide before they quickly stand at attention and salute, followed by the rebel soldiers once they figure out what's going on; it's actually quite interesting seeing the difference in salutes between those from Central, Thirteen, and the districts.

As the man returns the salute, also in a different manner, it doesn't take me long to process the full enormity of this impromptu meeting, and judging from the symbol, I can tell that these folks did not come from Eleven. They're not even from Panem.

When the man finally reaches the stage, his aide approaches me to state, "Señor Mellark, I would like to introduce to you Admiral Ernesto Laferrière of the Confederate States of the Caribbean and representative to the Consortium of Seven."

At this announcement, Eleven's new mayor goes into a panic and begins barking orders to his staff to add more chairs for the dinner. Even though I'm still in a fair amount of shock, I manage to shake the hand of the admiral as he gives me a smile to say, "Didn't expect to see us, Mr. Mellark?" Despite their similar complexions to those in Eleven, these foreigners speak in a rolling and almost melodic manner instead of the molasses-like drawl of the district.

My only response when I get my voice back is, "Can't say I have, sir."

The lame reply makes Laferrière chuckle a bit. "Let's just say that your actions have become quite the conversation topic among diplomatic circles. Also with a nation like Panem going through these upheavals, naturally we have a vested interest in its possible future."

 _People outside of Panem are paying attention to me?_  "Um… but I'm just a guy making speeches and such; I'm no politician or military leader. Wouldn't you be more suited to talk to them?"

"Oh I assure you that we will if your side turns victorious and manages to secure your nation in full. But I think you misunderstand my intent, Mr. Mellark," he says with a slight shake of the head. "I have not come here to negotiate terms or make treaties. I'm just here to meet you and have a nice chat."

And have a nice chat we do during the dinner; I mean that sincerely. I and my friends tell him a bit about the districts, and he gives us some tidbits about the Confederacy. Also, he informs me that he'll probably not be the only envoy I meet as I progress on.

~oOo~

The livestock-populated plains of Ten and power plant-strewn deserts of Five — a carved piece of cow horn from the former and a solar panel from the latter — are just as uneventful as the northeastern districts.

I'll confess to nervousness about Two, considering the whole business with the Nut and bringing the war to their district. Yet when I arrive, the reception at the cleaned-up square is surprisingly warm; though I wonder if it would be as warm if it was an official from Thirteen speaking. 

"While your little speech during the Nut's downfall did help things along, it was your actions at the Victors' Village that solidified the district's opinion of you," Lyme tells me as we stand with the other victors.

"How did they know?" I know that, as promised, we didn't broadcast the footage of confrontation.

"Don't underestimate the ability of word to get out. One thing to remember, they are cheering you for your actions, not because of the Rebellion."

To start of the speech, I make sure to bring out the token I already have: the bullet Marcus almost used to split my head open. I show it to the crowd tell them that, just like the bullet, while people of Two are both powerful and deadly, the fact that said bullet is unfired shows that they are also capable of great mercy and honor. The crowd seems to appreciate the metaphor. Just to be on the safe side though, I barely mention the Rebellion itself, which garners an approving nod from Lyme.

I do wish that I could have been able to find Cato's family, but it turns out that they, as well as Clove's folks, were die-hard loyalists and fought to the last person, which is a legitimate shame. Then again, the conversation would probably be a bit on the… interesting side.

" _Hey, I'm sorry for pushing your son so he could be mauled to not-quite-death by wolf mutts. By the way, right now he likes to frequent my dreams and isn't that bad of a guy to hang out with; though he's still a bit of a tool. Cake?"_

… Yeah, this is probably for the best.

~oOo~

One's reception is a bit on the cooler side, likely due to the especially nasty nature of the fight between non-Peacekeeper loyalist forces and rebels, but still welcoming. I also probably get the fanciest token so far; pin of garnet set in platinum filigree. My actions in Two have been heard of across district borders, so that might account for the positive reception. My reputation seems to go up several notches further when I put a wreath at the entrance to the ruins of the Victor's Village right before I depart for the last district.

When we get to Four, I can also see how bad the fight got. If anything, the loyalists were even more passionate and aggressive in fighting than the Peacekeepers, and the result of the constant guerrilla-type skirmishes with the rebels left the district, which I remembered to be very prosperous and laid-back, to be in shambles. As a result, the reception's similar to One; while I'm thankful for the calm, I try not to think about where the loyalists went. The tight security in conjunction with the cloudy and windy day doesn't help things.

Still, despite the recent turmoil, some spots managed to largely escape unscathed. The most prominent example is a tower that's clad in white stone and looms four hundred meters over the clustered and forested archipelago occupied by Four's main city and harbor. Abstract yet symmetrical figures painted in red and black dominate the front of the cedar entrance hall, and similar designs are carved across the gracefully-tiered surface of the tower all the way up to its summit; a summit capped by a massive brazen bowl holding flames — originally actual fire; now synthetic — that follow the path of the wind. At night, the flames and four powerful beams of light — emanating three-quarters of the way up and shining miles in each cardinal direction — serve as a marker for vessels in the sheltered sea. Like Two's Summit Hall and Three's Tower, the Beacon hails from the Long Winter before Panem and before it became a Justice Building. And it still serves as its districts shining symbol.

It's in front of Beacon and before the crowded harbor-front square that I stand with Annie and Finnick. The newlyweds, who are only here for my visit before they head back to Central, don't hesitate to give me my token: a carefully-made small length of rope with various stuff like shells and ivory tied at the ends. It takes me a while to figure out that the rope is made out of the net they used for their wedding. Finnick informs me that whenever I'm feeling especially nervous or stressed out, it helps to tie knots; the fact that he made such a token gives me even greater appreciation for the guy.

Of course Finnick has to add,  _"Originally wanted to make the net into a skirt. You'd look good in it."_

"You've been talking to Johanna, haven't you," I grumble with a glower.

His only response is to grin and cluck that replacement tongue of his repeatedly — he may not be able to talk, but that doesn't stop him from making annoying sounds — until Annie lightly backhands him in the chest with an admonishing glance and small smirk.

Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle turns our attention to the harbor as it heralds the arrival of a ship. I guess Laferrière was right about there being more visitors.

The vessel has to be over a hundred feet and constructed with cedar. Despite its build I can see advanced repulsors that allow it to slice through the water effortlessly. What really catches my attention though are the series of designs painted from the midpoint all the way to the tip of the long tapering prow. The predatory form the designs give reminds me a bit of Central's practice of painting the front of their aircraft; however, with this ship, there's not just the profile of a creature's face, but also a series of more eyes and faces nested within it. Set along the top of the ship are a series of white banners, each a slightly different style with various creatures on them; the largest one at center is emblazoned with what I think a large horned eagle-like bird with a human face on its chest.

Come to think of it, the designs before us are strikingly similar — all the way down to the minimal colors and lack of shading — to that of the Beacon and rest of Four. More elaborate than all but the older structures, but still similar. That similarity applies to the wooden construction of our fishing vessels as well.

When the vessel finally parks at the harbor and sets a ramp down, a thin man with a wispy beard strolls out while flanked by a security detailed. While the man wears an immaculate suit, over that suit is a tasseled shawl with designs woven into it in black, yellow, and turquoise; also on his head is a wide hyperboloid hat woven out cedar bark and also marked with creatures.

Upon seeing me, the man grins and tips his hat in greeting. "Ah, Mr. Mellark… I assume the good admiral gave you a heads up." To my surprise, his accent's completely different from the district most close in style and proximity to his nation; if anything, he sounds more at home in Eleven, while it's the Caribbean delegates who would sound at home in Four. "Jacob Coldstream, CEO of Tlingit Industries and Councilman to the United Tribal Federation of the Northwestern Pacific Coast; you can just say 'Haida Gwaii'. I also represent the Consortium and would like to express my pleasure in meeting you. Same goes for you, Mr. Odair and Ms. Cresta—excuse me _… Mrs. Odair_." 

_Damn… They really have been keeping tabs on us._

After we greet Coldstream back, and I offer him some cookies — the heads-up given by Laferrière did help in that regard — the envoy checks his watch to remark, "We have one more visitor and she should be here any minute now."

Right on cue, an aircraft uncloaks and makes a rapid descent towards us. At just a couple hundred feet from the surface, it smoothly slows down to settle into the water. With its blade-like form, mobile capabilities, and what I assume are various defensive drones swarming overhead, the transport is clearly much more advanced than what even Central has to offer; looking behind me, I can see Joe staring at the thing with no small amount of awe, envy, and curiosity. On one side of the front, there is a coat of arms with a kangaroo, kiwi bird, and bird-of-paradise holding up a heraldic shield; on the other side, is a circular seal with a wave bordering one edge, volcano bordering another, coral reef at the bottom, horizon at midpoint, and a series of stars at top.

"This… this is unprecedented…" Plutarch mutters with wide eyes and a gaping mouth as he stands next to me.

The craft soon opens up with a ramp of its own. A security unit clad in red comes out first and lines the path before a herald, who immediately announces the person of note:

"Ladies and gentlemen, Her Royal Highness Princess Mary of the United Kingdom of Australiasia, Duchess of Aotearoa, and envoy from the Federated League of the Pacific."

The aforementioned princess is a slim yet tall young woman with an olive complexion and dark brown eyes. Her jet black hair is mostly tucked away in a  _nice_  feather-accented hat, and she wears an sleek patterned dress with a necklace of jade and opal. However, the thing really of note is the set of intricate lines tattooed from her inked lips down her chin.

Before long, we are face-to-face, so I give a small bow and state quite eloquently, "Um… Peeta Mellark of Twelve." I follow up with that by presenting the box I'm holding with a smile. "Cookie?"

~oOo~

Surprisingly, I managed to not make a fool out of myself in front of the two envoys, and we actually had an enjoyable social time; to add on that, both of them liked my cookies. Also despite the formal introduction, the princess showed herself to have quite a laid-back personality. Though, like with the meeting with the admiral, this was just an informal meeting; Haida Gwaii is likely to maintain relations with whoever wins, and the Pacific League gives no promises that it will formalize relations with Panem even if the Rebellion wins.

In any case, it doesn't take long for us to reach the Captiol. We settle in the main hovercraft port which the rebels have already secured, and it's already starting to fill with rebel forces. However, we can't proceed further just yet. While the force field is down, there are traps all over the city which are in the form of "pods" and all connected to the city grid.

Thus the Central engineers have to make sure that the city is as safe as possible — barring the fact that there will be Peacekeepers all over the place — by taking over the grid. So we wait and see as Joe works tirelessly on his console, in conjunction with other engineers that are likely within close proximity, to break into the system.

* * *

***Currently at the Presidential Mansion…***

Forget Avoxing; I'm going to round up every one of these incompetent fools and render them into fertilizer for my garden.

Granted, it was inevitable that the force field be brought down in the event of rebel invasion; if not from somebody finding a way to shut it off, then from a manual sabotage at shorting it out.

However, those lunatics from Central are now breaking into the very security system of the Capitol, even though it's of a different system than the rest of the nation. Once they get in, they aren't going just going to cut power and communications, make our surveillance blind, and shut off the weapons' pods scattered throughout the city; instead, our cameras are going to be theirs, and they will likely be using our own pods against us. The worst part is that they already know how those pods operate in a first-hand manner.

_Why did I have to solely rely on that damn town in the middle of the woods to design and create the majority of our advanced defense technology?_

The pitiful gibbering of the technicians answers my question.  _I'm surrounded by idiots._

At the very least, the security and power system for the mansion itself is on its own isolated grid, with manual augmentation and safeguards. If the enemy wants to break into it, they will have to get here first, and I have no intention of making it easy for them. Maybe some key players can be taken out in the process

Doesn't mean I don't feel any less impotent as I watch the image on my projector flicker and shift from enemy attempts at hacking the Capitol's system. Finally, the image goes blank, with the obvious implications.

However, as I'm about to get up to obtain a drink, or two, the projector comes back on and a new image immediately comes up. It takes me a couple seconds to figure out what said image is. Once I do…

"…"

* * *

***Back to our… um… intrepid heroes…***

As I watch the crudely-drawn looped animation, replacing the usual content, playing on televisions and projected on buildings throughout the Capitol, I begin to call into question the maturity level of my Central allies. At the moment, I'm just glad that's the animation is just simple black-and-white line work instead of anything… detailed.

"So… how does it look?" asks Luce excitedly with a wide grin.

I might as well say what it is: "It looks like a dragon that's made up of dicks and rampaging back-and-forth throughout the Capitol." I hope that whatever's spouting out of its… mouth is supposed to be flames. The rest of the squad is either utterly bemused or snickering like crazy.

"Wait a moment…" Joe narrows his eyes at the nearest projection. "Ah, dammit; it looks like the one playing now is the old version. Let me check if someone has the updated version to put up."

A few minutes later, the animation flickers a bit before being replaced with one that's almost identical to before; except for only a couple differences:

The first is a speech bubble hovering over the penis-dragon that constantly says, "RAWR!"

The second is the set of bold words, flashing at the top of the picture, which spells out a simple phrase:

_"SNOW LOVES THE COCK"_

_That's it! I'm done for the day…_

That internal thought, plus burying my face in my hands before they are thrown up into the air, is the only response I deign to give before retreating to take a nap.

Behind me, Luce hi-fives Joe while giving his own addendum:

"Fact."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I modeled the Guardians after the USMC; crudely-drawn phallic imagery was inevitable. 
> 
> Yes, it was intentional for the admiral to have a Spanish first name and French last name considering the region.
> 
> And yes, the United Kingdom is now in Australiasia instead of Britain; remnants of the House of Windsor setting up shop in the region, which managed to escape a good chunk of the nastiness that went around the world, hence it being a powerhouse. As for what British Isles are like, one part's the Celtic Federation (Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, and Brittany; plus a bit more), which is quite decent; the other is the IngSoc-like regime of Albion (the core of old England plus Normandy), which people tend to avoid for good reason.
> 
> Also, yes many of the tribes of the Pacific Northwest field megacorps that collectively run their government. They are very environmentally-conscious megacorps though.


	35. Traps

Despite being part of Squad 451, colloquially labeled the "Star Squad", we see practically little-to-no action at all. It's pretty much already established that the only reason they are there is to serve as a security detail to protect my non-combative ass. When the guys in Central offered to give me some firearms training, the results on the target range were… interesting, even after several sessions of practice. They don't seem to mind though, which is a plus.

To my great surprise, Gale really doesn't seem to be having a problem with the current arrangement. I know that he probably wanted to storm the Snow's residence and put an arrow into that tyrant himself, yet he's stuck babysitting me. However, despite that, I hear no grumbling about such arrangements, even though he's the type of person to speak his mind. In fact, the guy is downright content with the current situation. Oh well, I'm not going to complain if he doesn't.

As the rebel front begins its assault on the Capitol, we sort of go around the FOB — since things are just starting, we're to remain here for the first couple days for security reasons — from unit to unit to so that Gale and I can give encouraging words to the soldiers entering there. We generally cut down on the speeches — in this kind of setting, speeches tend to get old after a while — in favor just mingling with them and toughing through horrible "meals" together.

Initially, I do vocally object to the fact that some of the soldiers are distressingly young. However, I soon find out that such objections are futile. Even without the leaders of the groups lying through their teeth about how everybody is fourteen-and-above — even if it weren't an utter crock of shit, which it is, fourteen still sounds too young in my eyes — the young soldiers themselves passionately retort that if they are old enough to be reaped, they are old enough to fight; except for the fact that some of them don't even look to be twelve, even when adjusted to growth stunting as attributed to malnutrition. So I soon learn to just grit my teeth and move on when I see such things; I'm just glad Vick and Rory aren't here.

At the very least, Jane doesn't write down my criticisms in her progress reports. In fact, when we review said reports — after she's sent them out of course — we find out that all of them are actually quite glowing. All statements that point to me as wholeheartedly supporting the Rebellion and its actions — though there have been a couple of incidents, with the use of child soldiers being just one, that I raised objections to; unsurprisingly, my objections aren't aired — as well as showing unconditional support towards Thirteen; now _that's_ cause for a good laugh, and we, including the soldiers from Thirteen, _do_ share said good laugh over it.

In general, the auditor has integrated into our squad almost seamlessly with such grace that she made it appear effortless in how quickly it has occurred. Usually she simply keeps out of the way, almost blending into any surrounding, to serenely obverse and report on whatever is going on; it's nice in that it makes us not feel like there is somebody constantly looking over our shoulder. However, when prompted, it turns out she does have a very intelligent and easy-going personality which makes a warm impact on everybody else. She even got on Joe's good side during the tour, which is probably no easy feat… or maybe it is just me whom he didn't like initially.

Anyways, despite the fact that this squad has no intention of getting into firefights, it doesn't mean that we aren't contributing directly to the campaign. There's the little fact that the entire Capitol has turned into the plaything of Central's engineers; I can just see Plutarch salivating at getting his hands on one of the controls. In general, most of the Central guys are staying here at the FOB, though several of them have been attached to specialized squads. That these units are almost entirely from either Two or Eight does not escape my attention; there is only one other integrated platoon, besides mine, that is not from those districts.

As we approach the camp where the unit is situated, I become aware of the flock of birds — at least they look like birds from this distance; wouldn't be surprised if there were other things present — circling overhead as if in a slow-moving vortex… or if something died; it's a bit creepy to be honest. One of the birds greets me at the camp's entrance with a sharp tweet, and next to it is a lizard-like machine that's sitting on its haunches and peering at us unblinkingly with its single ocular lens; yep, I definitely know who's here. Above the entrance is a banner with an image of a snarling mustelid-like creature, comprised of a body of burning anthracite and eyes of pyrite, that's busy sinking its claws into the Capitol's eagle. Upon seeing the banner, I find myself smiling in pride. I mean, why shouldn't I be proud? I was the one who drew the thing up in the first place for Twelve's sole platoon: the Coal Mutts.

When we get to the camp's center, we find ourselves greeted by cheers. Gale doesn't hesitate to go right into the group of coal miners, townies, and former Peacekeepers; I, and the rest of the squad, follow soon after. Probably due to the available supply, almost everybody there — fortunately, there is not an underage person in sight — is actually wearing modified Peacekeeper armor painted completely charcoal with a mockingjay on the chests and the platoon's symbol on back. The only ones who aren't wearing the modified armor are the three in Guardian fatigues: Ned, Brutus, and, to my surprise, Johanna.

"Fancy seeing you here," I remark as I nudge her with my shoulder, which garners a snort.

"You think I'd pass up this opportunity? I convinced Central to attach me to a group. Though to make sure I wasn't going to go nuts, they forced me through a ridiculous amount of therapy. The shrinks even dragged up my Games and Seven; can you believe that?" she growls before patting her holster, which contains a very vicious-looking hatchet. "Anyways, Volts gave me a gift. Finnick was less-than-pleased, but I think he understands."

Frankly, I myself am not sure Johanna should be here, but I keep my opinion to myself. At least her physical strength has come back to, and she seems to be keeping her water-based demons at bay. "I take he's stayed back."

"Yep. Especially after recent events."

"Recent events?"

"Seems they gained an interest in baking a little loaf of their own, Bread Boy."

It takes a few seconds for her comment to sink in completely, and I'm utterly gobsmacked. "Why didn't I hear about this sooner?"

"They found out about it after they got back from Four. It was actually right when I was shipping out. You should have seen the looks on their faces." Johanna makes a point to gag, but I can tell she's just as happy for them as I am. I myself can't help but already picture what their progeny would look like; probably get all of Finnick's looks and Annie's smarts.

"Well, I think that's great news." Switching tracks, I vaguely gesture in the direction of everybody else. "So, what's with the crowd gathered."

"Mutt Boy's about to do a presentation."

I can't help but laugh at the moniker. "'Mutt Boy'?"

In response to my query, Jo begins pointing at the Central guys and listing them off. "Mutt Boy, Med Boy, Bomb Boy… Brue." Before I ask, she states, "Couldn't be assed to find a good nickname for him."

Sure enough, members of the platoon start finding their seats facing Arezzo. Next to the machine, Ned casually sits in a chair while absentmindedly scratching Dewdrop behind the ears. Bit surprised they just allow the mutt to walk around freely but everybody's seems to be used to her; I actually saw some of the soldiers giving her treats earlier.

Once everybody gets seated, Ned claps his hands together and gets up to address the group. It's a bit funny seeing him about to start a lecture considering that the youngest Twelve soldier probably has at least a year or two on him. "Alright, supposedly I'm supposed to give you chuckleheads some tactical advice."

One of the soldiers cuts in to yell, "Hey, what's the Psychotic Ginger doing lecturing us? I thought we're learning how to set off pods, not watching mutts fuck."

The rest of the group laughs, and to my surprise, Ned doesn't flip out but instead flashes a toothy grin in the direction of the soldier. "Well, lookie here… we got ourselves a comedian. Yes, this unit's primary purpose is to bring hell upon the Capitol via their own pods. In fact, Mellark's squad's sticking around for a while so that Joe can show you how to use your personal consoles.

"However, it pays to use these effectively for maximum damage per activation. Because not being effective possibly means wasting pods. And of course, waste is a disgusting habit; it's something the Capitol does. You guys ain't the Capitol, are you?" When the group members collectively shake their heads, Ned continues on: "Good. Anyways, to learn how to be effective with these pods, it helps to learn herd behavior. Because, more often than not, your enemy is going to be traveling in a group; the key is to take advantage of how said groups behave. Now optimally, you'd be having Lucy Stone lecturing you as collective behavior is a specialty of hers, but the Bastard-with-Boobs has no interest in coming out this way. So you're stuck with me. Any questions?"

With no questions to be had, Ned states, "Now, I could lecture on about behavioral biology and the like, but y'all probably be bored senseless. Instead, we're gonna learn via demonstration." He proceeds to motion to Arezzo, which projects an image of a loyalist militia just relaxing in their camp by the street; I try not to think about the fact that, like with many of the rebel units, some of the fighters there are young kids. "From what I've been told, Snow ain't informed his little lackeys that the pods are fully under our control; reckon he doesn't want to effect morale or something. So, for now, these clueless dipshits are fully in the dark; of course, that doesn't mean they can't learn. With that, we are focusing on loyalist militias in non-essential locales; relatively easy to take out, and under the slight chance that one may escape, they are less likely to be believed that something's amiss."

"Wait, so this 'practice' is actually going to take out enemy units in real life?" asks Thom.

"Yep. Is that a problem?" There's no objection. "Alrighty then. Now as you can see there are a bunch of pods scattered around the vicinity. So what's gonna happen is that I'm gonna ask you folks to pick a pod to start with — I want you to give me a reason for your choice as well — and then we'll let Joe do the rest. I'll give you time to look over the type of pods and such before making a decision."

After couple minutes, one of the soldiers picks the one right in the middle of the group with the rationale that it should take everybody out the first time around. All Joe does is gesture towards the pod, and we see it go off, sending shrapnel in all direction. Everybody in the immediate vicinity is torn to shreds and several a bit further out are clearly mortally wounded; however, a good chunk of them manage to avoid the initial blast and scatter in all directions. With some quick thinking by Joe, and several pods later, the squad is eliminated.

After the engagement has concluded, Ned turns to the audience. "Alright, so what was the problem with this demonstration?"

Thom answers: "Everybody scattered, and it seemed hard to keep track of them."

The young scientist seems pleased with the answer. "Exactly. You can't guarantee that you'll kill everybody at once during the first try. If you cause a disruption in the middle of a group, the usual course of action is for them to scatter, and as you can see, once they scatter, you are dealing with a greater area; not only do you expend more pods, but you also give a greater chance of at least one target escaping. You want none to escape. Let's try again, and this time, try to think as to how crowds work and utilize it against them." Another loyalist squad is brought up.

Even though I've seen the guy in action several times before, the casual way at which Ned explains everything still bugs me a bit.

"You know, if it wasn't for the fact that Ned always had great contempt towards the Capitol, even before his parents got killed, and considers voluntarily transferring out of Central to be treasonous, I could see him becoming a Gamemaker," Brutus comments as he sidles next to us.

"He'd probably end up pissing off Snow by having all of the tributes eaten by mutts within the first couple minutes," quips Johanna.

Brutus nods at her point. "Don't doubt that."

The soldiers finally make their decision and select a pod to the side. When it explodes, the loyalist squad does head away from it, but this time, they are bunched up and heading in one direction. It only takes one other pod to take the majority of the rest out and one more to remove the stragglers.

Ned is pleased. "Excellent work; you guys learn quickly, which is always great. Soon, you'll each have a go at this before we head out in earnest. But first…" This time, the squad presented is a Peacekeeper unit. "Joe's going to do a little demo with a group that has considerably more training. Then we're going to replay it to see if you learn anything."

~oOo~

Within a week, we actually head out into the city. For security sake, we stay behind the advancing line and just focus on propo-making. The film crew actually had all of their equipment modified while in Central. So now, they are able to edit footage and connect to the network so as to broadcast directly from the field instead of going through Plutarch. Castor and Pollux's recording equipment not only has additional storage capability but also automatically records footage from security devices within the immediate vicinity, which gives more possible angles.

At the very least, the squad dispenses with Plutarch's idea of having them act out dramatic battles — shooting out windows, blowing up pods for no reason, running around and acting like we're engaging an enemy unit… yeah, we think it's pretty lame as well — in favor of just keeping me safe as we progress further in the city. Joe does work on the offense, spending time during our breaks to take out distant enemy units remotely with the pods, but it turns out that filming a guy just sitting down, and seemingly moving his hands at nothing while deep in concentration, gets old after a while.

Besides chatting up any rebel units we come across, I actually do try to engage Capitol civilians — well, those who haven't evacuated under the rebel advance — when I can; the squad stays within just enough proximity so as not to be threatening but also to step in just in case things get nasty. The fact remains that if we are going to take this city, the Capitolites are to be part of this nation's new beginning as well. Their lifestyle will undoubtedly take a hit, but it will be beneficial to bring them into the fold as quickly as possible.

Of course, understandably, many Capitolites wish to have nothing to do with me, be it due to Capitol propaganda or simply fearing anything that is connected to the war that's sweeping through their neighborhoods; a few actually look ready to start something except for the fact that I have backup and, with the Capitol's network in rebel hands, there's no way for them to call for help. However, just as many, if not more, citizens are actually quite receptive to my presence; most are still scared of Gale though. Fortunately, they also don't treat me as a victor but just as somebody wishing to offer comforting words.

Admittedly, we spend the rest of the time just goofing off; hell, some of the footage broadcasted displays just that as a way to show that we're only human. A highlight is when we visit Monument Park, which has a collection of old statues from pre-Cataclysm America. Much of the time there is sent climbing and hopping around on the old statues as if we were a bunch of caffeinated goats. Turns out that the Leeg twins are excellent at freerunning — they have a race with the Central guys and Messalla through the structures at a pace that's almost impossible to follow, with the girls displaying a ridiculous amount of acrobatics — and Holmes does an impressive standing slide at least thirty feet down a slanted slab of marble. Even Boggs, who joins with Chaff in commenting that they are too old to join us, and Jackson, whom I've always thought lacked a sense of humor, get a hearty laugh out of our antics.

The squad ends the day with our picture taken in front of — okay, some of them are actually swinging from the spiked crown — the scorched and patinated head of a fabled monument from what is now the Eastern Wilderness. Considering what that statue used to represent, it's a bit ironic that the Capitol has it on display.

All in all, things are going well.

~oOo~

"I know you were assigned to kill me in the event of my possible failure."

My statement leveled at Luce is made not as an accusation but simple fact. In all honesty, I really have no problem with it at this point, but I still wish to clear the air just in case.

Luce looks only moderately surprised and doesn't bother denying anything, though he still seems slightly uncomfortable with the subject. Granted, what decent person wouldn't be uncomfortable? "Well, technically I'm supposed detain you so that you'd be court-martialed in accordance with our laws. The mutts would probably be the ones to kill you. Granted, if you resisted arrest or anybody tried to stop me…" The implication's obvious. "Truth is, unless you did something truly horrible, I was acting in self-defense, or it was a mercy-kill, I don't think I'd be able to kill you. Heck, after the past few months, I don't think I could kill any member of this squad. My mom still probably wouldn't hesitate though."

Even after all this time, I still shudder a bit at the thought of a pissed-off sword-wielding Porus coming at me. "I believe you. And seriously, don't worry about it. Frankly, if this rebellion somehow fails, you guys executing me would probably be better than whatever fate would await me in Snow's clutches."

He snorts a bit at that. "If it's any consolation, I'll argue for them to have one of the bigger mutts to take you out; they tend to do a quicker job. Fact."

"Yeah, I'd rather be decapitated by that oversized pangolin than turned into a nursery for a brood of parasitoid larvae." Both of us have a little fit of giggles over my scenario. _Damn, I really have been in that place for too long._

At the moment, the squad's camped out and relaxing in an abandoned neighborhood right at the edge of rebel territory. Our location is a bit on the risky side, but there has been a desire from everyone — I was actually the one to vocalize what everybody was thinking but not saying; I still don't want to get into any fights, but I also don't want to be treated like some delicate flower that holds everybody back — to pick up the pace a bit and keep at the same level of progress with the rest of the rebels. In any case, the control of the pods around us, the early warning system given from utilizing the surveillance, and the majority of the fighters being crack marksmen gives us more than a hefty bit of protection; of course, that's not saying we aren't vigilant.

"By the way… what's with the glasses?" I see the wraparound visor-like eyewear as practically ubiquitous to those in the Corps. They look similar to the glasses worn by welders except that the lenses are only slightly tinted, so they are worn at night like what I witnessed back during the Battle of District Twelve. I also notice that they appear to connect directly into the communicators via the end of their earpieces.

"Well, it's a bit silly to go into a warzone without eye protection." He raises his voice considerably to the point that the rest of the squad can hear him. _Real subtle with the medical guilt-trip, Doc._ Considering his role, the soldiers simply refer to Luce by that moniker. "And before you say anything, no I didn't wear them while in Twelve, and yes it was very stupid of me."

I can't help but feel a bit disappointed that they're simply safety glasses. "Oh…"

Luce grins at me wryly. "You were expecting something a bit more, weren't you."

Before I can reply, he detaches the glasses from the communicator, takes them off, and offers for me to wear them. Sure enough, when I put them on, I find that there is nothing special about them. However, Luce stops me from taking them off. "Just wait a moment for it to recalibrate."

Suddenly my field of vision is illuminated with a ton of stats. The street, and as well as the buildings lining it, becomes outlined and named. Identification tags appear over each of the weapon pods. On a corner of the screen, a tiny little map shows a basic overview of the area and what direction I'm facing. More impressively, and a bit on the unnerving side, when I look at my squad mates, I not only see their names, birthday, blood type, and ID number; I also see their heart rate, complete with a little graph hovering over them, blood pressure, and other health states. Despite being projected on the lens, the impression it gives me is as if the stats are actually floating around my surroundings.

"Right now, the image probably looks a bit cluttered, so it'd be good to clear things up." The Corpsman takes off a right glove similar to the one I see Ned and Joe using. Once I replace the one I'm normally wearing with it, he tells me to clear everything away and shows me the hand motions to do so. Sure enough, once I copy the motions, everything gets cleared away except for some base stats about me and the little directional map. Then I'm shown how to look at each layer in the visual display. It becomes clear how Ned's able to control swarms of mutts with a flick of his wrist or how Joe can activate a pod at will. In the latter's case, it's amazing how much information of the Capitol's layout I'm able to go through, from viewing security cam footage — if I was also wearing the comm, I'd be able to listen in as well — to seeing the infrastructural state of the city. For Luce, apparently he only utilizes the basic map as well as the information of each member of the squad to keep tabs on their health; apparently, when used in conjunction with his other tools or when viewing somebody with a ton of augmentations, even more medical information is displayed.

Luce allows me to have a bit of fun going through all the stuff here — I don't have the right required equipment, so there are no worries of me accidentally setting off a pod or something similar — which I do. That's when I notice that we appear to have some company at the edge of the map. When I mention that, Luce immediately takes his glasses back and puts them back on.

"Think you're forgetting something." I remark while holding the glove.

Luce doesn't bother looking at me when he grabs it. "Thanks, but I actually don't need gloves for this; just wearing these to keep warm. Sometimes forget to wear them, so I had chips installed in my fingertips." _Gah!_ After a minute, the Corpsman appears to breathe a sigh of relief and smiles at me. "It looks like several squads of loyalist militiamen and a squad of Peacekeepers several blocks away; however, they are currently just resting at the moment and too far to pose an immediate threat. It'd still probably be a good idea to bring this up to Comma—"

Suddenly, for some reason, not only does Luce stop talking but his smile also slips away at a same rate in which he seems to be growing pale.

His sudden shift in demeanor sets me a bit on edge, so I tentatively ask, "Hey… are you alright?"

"Peeta, you need to stay here with the others," he shakily, yet rapidly, tells me as he stands up. There's panic in his voice; not the childish panic I've usually seen him exhibit whenever somebody is angry, but the serious kind when there's the feeling that something's wrong… very wrong. I don't even know what the matter is, but what I do know is that there was one memorable time in which I heard such panic exhibited before: when Katniss and Finnick were with the jabberjays.

As Luce is about to run in the direction where I remember Joe being located, I take a few tentative steps towards him. "Luce, what's wr—"

"I SAID STAY THERE; THAT'S AN ORDER!" The moment the corpsman whips around and yells that, I'm stunned into silence and frozen in my tracks. It's not just because of the fact that he's become uncharacteristically official with me even though he's not an officer nor am I even within any sort of chain of command. It's the fact that I can now sense not just panic, but actual fear emanating from him; underneath that fear is worry accompanied by something… else. Not helping is the wild look in his eyes, which is noticeable even behind those glasses of his.

Luce doesn't spare any time after that to continue in a full sprint before turning and disappearing behind the corner; the whole time, I can hear him rambling incoherently into his comm. From the looks of the squad, I can tell that the rest of them are just as confused and on edge about what we've just witnessed.

A few minutes pass when a horrible scream fills the air and makes everybody jump. Even after the initial surprise and it fading away, there's an inarticulate and feral nature along with another quality to that scream which tears right into me; not least due to the fact that I can just barely recognize the voice of its owner.

"Okay, screw staying here…" I mutter before setting off towards that direction. Gale, immediately seeing my intent, doesn't try to stop me but immediately rises with the intent of following for the sake of watching my back. Same goes for the rest of the squad.

I only manage to make through a few yards before the world goes to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Peeta mostly doing propos showing him in a humanitarian light, barring that wacky little episode in Twelve, his presence would likely garner less fear in the Capitol than Katniss with her "Fire is Catching" speech, even with Snow's propaganda machine in overdrive.
> 
> Also, this Capitol invasion is simultaneously more aggressive yet less damaging to infrastructure.
> 
> Things are going to get a bit dark from here. At least Finnick's not going to be lizard chow… or is he?


	36. Hodie... Crastinum... Inperpetuum

We were so close… we were so fucking close. The damn Capitol itself was being overrun with rebel forces. So what happened? How the hell did the tide turn?

How did we lose?

More importantly, why am I still alive? Why me, and not them? Why not the squad, the remains of which are scattered across the streetscape and splattered on the walls? Why not Chaff, who has been rendered into an unrecognizable lump of meat? Why not Gale? _Oh Gale… why did you have to play the hero and act as a shield?_ His lifeless and unseeing eyes stare back at me as I push his body off my own, the motion of which causes his torso to separate from the legs. The damn fool sacrificed himself, even though I've done nothing to deserve it.

Of course that's how it is. I'm the damn survivor. Every good person around has to die, which leaves the tyrants in control and the pathetic little liar to walk the earth.

Being the coward that I am, I flee from the scene, not caring where I go. The road buckles under my feet, and the light reflecting off of every surface is harsh against my eyes, but I still don't stop running. I just maneuver around the increasingly windy streets until I stumble upon a group of Peacekeepers. As I take a look around, I can see the white-clad army marching on in triumph as they beat the rebel forces back. The expressions of the ones near me are hidden for some reason, but their intent is not when they aim their guns in my direction.

I make no mention to defend myself, but before they can shoot, gunfire from above cuts them down, and it proceeds to mow down any Peacekeeper within the vicinity. However, I know that the hovercraft doing the firing has not come for me out of a gesture of generosity. Sure enough, once it lands and the doors open, Porus appears with an expression of extreme hostility. There is no resistance to be had from me as faceless Guardians come out to drag me into the aircraft. As we lift off, I see the Capitol burning below us, the fires of which seem to be spreading.

"I told you what would happen if you failed, Mellark. Are you prepared to face the consequences?" I just nod my head at Porus' query, which causes her to glance contemptuously out the window. "Good… because you deserve it considering the result of your failure."

When I follow her gaze outside the window, I can see that we're already back in Central. I don't bother wondering how we got here so quickly; I'm too distract by the fact that the citadel is on fire as well, with the forest going up like kindling and a tall inferno replacing what used to be the Tower. All the people I've met here… gone. Beetee, Annie, Finnick, and the Odair's unborn child… gone. My new family…

I stumble back from the window, but the Commandant grabs the back of my neck in an iron grip before slamming my face back onto the transparent surface; for some reason, it actually doesn't hurt.

"I thought you were prepared. Part of the facing the consequences is taking a good long look at the results of your action."

"I never meant for this to happen…" I mumble.

"Doesn't matter. And for the next part, I think it appropriate for somebody else to carry out the punishment." At that, she casually throws me back, making me hit the ground. I resign myself to staying on the ground when _her_ voice reaches my ears.

"Peeta…" Wait… how did she escape? How did Porus get her on this ship? This… something's wrong with this… "Peeta… why did you leave me behind?"

I look up to plea, but my response falls short at the sight of her. It's not the presence of Katniss herself that gives me pause, but the fact that she's in her Quell outfit and the same physical shape she had back then. Even with my limited knowledge of pregnancy, I know that there's no way she should look like this. When I finally get my voice back, all I can say is, "This-this isn't real."

Katniss' only response is to shove me off the hovercraft into the forest below.

Not-as-surprisingly this time, I don't feel anything upon hitting the ground, even with the several-hundred-foot drop. "This isn't real…" I repeat as I slowly get up. "This is just another nightmare. It's not real… not real… not real…"

"Took you long enough." Cato's nonchalant voice interrupts my little mantra, and I turn around to face the guy lounging on a rock. "Really now, the signs were all there."

I remember trying to go after Luce, but now I'm in this setting. Where did reality end and the nightmare begin? When I think back on how I last saw the members of my squad, I hope that at least that part was a dream. _Please be a dream…_ "How did I get here?"

The Career is about to answer, but somebody else cuts him off. "You were being a pathetic little excuse for a whelp. That's how you got here." This may be a dream, but I still cringe back when my mother comes striding out from the forest's shadows; the noose marks are still apparent on her thin neck as she regards me haughtily.

Cato glares at my mother — it actually succeeds in making her step partially back into the shadows — before shrugging at me. "You expect us to know any better than you?"

For a brief moment, the available light around us dims which makes me look up to see that the sky is starting to darken from smoke billowing up; soon the smoke completely blankets the area as if it were a twisted mockery of a raincloud. However, the fiery source of that smoke begins to illuminate the cluttered atmosphere with an orange glow that reflects back down upon us and casts everything in a warm hue, effectively replacing the now-blocked sunlight. The glow actually appears to be getting continuously brighter with each passing moment.

I turn back to my mother. "So why are _you_ here?"

My tone comes out harsher than expected — not that I'm sorry for it to do so — which causes the woman-who-birthed-me to raise an eyebrow and sneer. "Now is that any way to talk to your mother?"

"A generous term…" I shoot back, "I'm not in a generous mood right now."

"Well, it seems that you are starting to grow a backbone after all." She actually seems to be looking at me a bit approvingly. A year ago, I would have yearned for such approval; now… I'm not so sure. "I'm here to make sure that you don't screw things up in this little quixotic quest of yours."

"'Quixotic quest'? What the hell does that even mean, and what makes you think that I'll screw things up?"

Mother gives a mirthless little laugh. "Remember that I'm just a part of you. That means that deep down, you know that much of this idealism that fuels your mission to 'save' this nation is as blind as the majority of fools living in it. If you really wish the best for Panem, you're going to have to be more alert and farsighted than you've been lately. And there is a chance that you are going to have to get your hands dirty; because fancy propos will only get you so far."

"So that's all you've come to tell me: that I'm not doing enough?" By now, I'm noticing that the fire-illuminated light is not just being reflected from the sky but is coming from past the trees, as if the flames are advancing upon us.

"I came to tell you to look at the big picture and do something about it." She retreats back into the dwindling shadows but leaves a parting statement before disappearing completely: "Whether or not you choose to heed my advice, it is all up to you."

I look back at Cato, who is now silhouetted against the inferno that I now _know_ is advancing upon us. Actually it's advancing quite rapidly, consuming everything in its wake. "She's right, you know," the Career quietly states. "Your mother may be a bitch, but the point remains that you are going to have to be more aware of what's happening around you."

"I'll keep that in mind. In the meantime, why you don't cut me down or something to get me out of this hellscape?"

"Oh Peeta…" Cato gives me a small sad smile right as the firestorm reaches our location. "If only it were that easy."

I instinctive duck and throw my hands up in a protective gesture as the flames sweep through and consume us. However, while my clothes get burnt off, leaving me as naked to the elements as the day I was born, I myself am unharmed; the same can't be said for Cato. The Career doesn't even flinch as his body chars and deforms in the heat, and his smile twists and pulls back to turn into a rictus that reveals white teeth shining against blackened flesh. The burnt husk continues to grin at me before mercifully crumbling into black flakes and white fragments.

All around me, the forest has been set ablaze, with flames reaching past the highest glowing treetop and embers swirling around in the air to contrast with the dark, soot-laden sky. I know that there is no point in just staying here; so, even in the state that I'm in, I decide to get a move on and follow the one clear path available to me. I don't know how much time passes in my trek or in real time; I don't know how much distance I cover; I just know that flames everywhere I go. Be it forest or plain; be it village or city; it doesn't matter. Every structure and terrain is a pyre, and every inhabitant is a charred corpse. The whole time, I also feel like I'm being watched.

Somehow, I manage to get back into the Capitol, and I can see that the once-proud city is in ruins, with the formerly-colorful buildings now dark wrecks highlighted with the dancing flames. I pass by the corpses of rebels, civilians, and Peacekeepers as I trek down the street until reaching the City Circle.

As I survey the devastation, the sound of crying alerts me to the center of the plaza. In the very middle, fourteen individuals, each of them as charred and distorted as the rest I have seen, crowd together in a macabre tableau. As I get closer, I can see that the figures are collectively holding up a crying and wriggling blanket-swathed bundle. When the figures begin to crumble, I rush forward and plow through them to catch the falling bundle and cradle it in my arms.

As I adjust my grip, the infant ceases her cries to look curiously at me before cooing lightly as she reaches with pudgy fingers to paw at my face. The only way I can describe her is that she's a baby girl and her appearance defies a static description; for some reason, her complexion, as well as her hair and eye color, keeps shifting in a state of flux that makes describing her impossible.

Despite the setting, I smile and croon to the child, "Don't worry, kid. You're safe now. Let's just—"

Whatever I have to say next is interrupted by a rumbling sound. I look up and hold the baby close to me as a figure emerges in the rubble at the far end of the circle: a shining eagle made of iron and far more massive than the building that it has taken the place of. It rises up to survey the landscape before it while perching comfortably in a nest constructed out of the piled and broken bodies of at least a thousand children and teenagers held together by thorned brambles.

Upon setting its gaze upon me, the metallic bird releases a piercing call and spreads out its wings of blade-like feathers plated in chrome so as to showcase its magnificent and cruel glory; though with a more attentive gaze, I can see rust spreading in many parts of its body. From the display and the way it's looking at me, the eagle's intention is clear: it wants the baby.

"Well you can't have her!" I scream as I hold the child tighter to my chest. As soon as I flee in the opposite direction, I hear another shriek emanate behind me and feel the wind buffeting against my back as the bird takes to the air. The airborne threat is something I know is right on my tail, but I refuse to look back as I run through street after street. When I run into a dead end, I am finally forced to turn to face my attacker as it swoops down with blood-stained talons outstretched.

However, before it can claim me and my cargo, the eagle is blocked by a series of attackers. Twelve gold mockingjays swarm the much larger bird, which gives me an opening to escape. I finally get out of the wrecked urban area and find sanctuary in a hill overlooking the city. From here, I can see the battle in the sky still raging. Despite being bigger than its golden attackers, the eagle finds itself outnumbered and outmaneuvered as the mockingjays zip around and peck at it; with each peck, the chrome flakes away, revealing more rust underneath.

The battle between the eagle and the mockingjays is getting so intense, they aren't paying attention to what's happening at ground-level. As another set of rumblings shakes the earth beneath me, I behold what remains of the buildings in the Capitol crumbling into fine rubble which begins swirling as if the entire basin has become a whirlpool. In the center of the vortex, a hand of earth and steel slowly rises straight up towards the combating birds; by the time they notice the newcomer, it's already too late. The hand clamps down upon eagle and mockingjay alike, crushing them in its fist; after that motion, the oversized bodiless appendage becomes static as the dark clouds swirl overhead.

From the clenched fish, I can see a trickle of blood emanating from it and spiraling down the forearm to pool at its base. As I watch, the pool covers all of what used to be the Capitol and begins filling up the valley, snuffing out the fires as it creeps up the mountainsides. I flee from the scene and the encroaching tide, but when I get to the other side, the blood is already spreading out through the landscape; so I have no choice but to trudge through the viscous liquid. The inferno has been smothered and anything remaining — a burnt tree, a wrecked structure, a body — crumbles in the initial flood, leaving a smooth mirrored expanse of crimson in its wake and as far as the eye can see. No matter how far I travel, if I'm even going anywhere, the distance between me and the raised fist — standing as a towering monolith — doesn't change any. Every once in a while, a wave would go through — the crest of which issues the sound of multitudes screaming, followed by silence — raising up the level; where once I started out at ankle depth, the liquid has now risen up to my mid-calf. The whole time, I once again get the feeling I'm stalked, and see a solitary figure slinking about in the distance.

By the time the blood is waist-high, I come across three serpentine and draconic beings standing sentinel and regarding me impassively. The first, with abstract dichromatic markings and eyes along its body, has the fins of a whale and the head of a wolf which holds a perpetual grin on its face. The second, with a great set of wings, is decked in a resplendent plumage of iridescent emerald and scarlet. The last, with a body of immeasurable length, has luminescent scales that issue a prismatic display of a multitude of colors. All three are neither stained nor sullied by the blood that they sit in, and despite my pleas, they offer neither help nor hindrance to me. Behind the serpents, I behold a diverse set of creatures and beings observing me; some view me with pity and sympathy; some view me with contempt and hostility; none offer to help. That when I see that slinking figure again, and this time, it becomes clear what it is: a sickly jaguar staring at me as it laps at the blood; with each gulp, its dull coat regains luster and emaciated form fills to become more hale to the sight.

While they still offer no help, the serpents do eventually and unanimously turn their heads to face a certain direction. When I follow the path of their collective gaze, I see a hill rising above the expanse and unaffected by the onslaught. After I thank the beings, I make for the hill as fast as I can go. Soon, I am forced to hold the bundle over my head as the blood reaches up to my chest, then to my shoulders, then to my neck; yet somehow, I manage to make it to shore. As I look around, I realize that I'm back in the Meadow; despite the dark clouds overhead and the towering monolith in the distance, the soft grass and dainty flowers have been untouched by fire or blood. Despite the peace and tranquility, I feel that it's still not enough and continue forward, going through the woods until I come across the lake. At the lake shore stands a cabin with light shining through the window and smoke billowing from the chimney.

Upon opening the door, I'm enveloped by a warm welcoming blanket of air. The cabin interior is simply furnished with all of the creature comforts of a home — there's even a bassinet in the corner — and a merry fire dancing in the hearth. I quickly approach the bassinet and carefully deposit the girl one the cushioned surface; she gurgles and smiles at me, and I can't help but return it.

When I look outside, I can see the monolith still tower above all. However, cracks seem to be forming on the forearm and gradually appear to be expanding. _Looks like we should be safe here; maybe we can get thr—_

A low growl replaces my hope with horror, and I turn to see the jaguar striding into the cabin. No longer is it a weak thing slinking in the shadows; now rippling muscles add bulk to a frame with shoulders that tower over me, and spotted fur illuminates the room with the golden glow of a risen sun. The proud creature would be beautiful to behold if not for the blood that still drips from its maw as it regards the bassinet with coiled predatory hunger.

Before the cat can pounce, I grab a knife and lunge forward with a scream.

Then everything goes black.

* * *

Through the darkness, a series of voices speak with frantic urgency. Some belong to strangers, while others sound familiar.

"Hey, he's coming to!"

"Vitals?"

"Still stable, but we're not in the clear yet."

"Peeta, come on. You can do this. Please don't give up now. You're gonna make it. You're gonna be fine…" I don't know what's said after that as I go back under.

I don't know how long I'm out; time loses all meaning, and I'm no longer visited by dreams. It's just a hazy swirling darkness, though I can occasionally hear muffled voices in the distance. Eventually though, the darkness is banished by light as my eyes slowly open.

As I adjust to the glare, I can see that I'm bedridden and in a sterile room. Judging from the IV sticking out of my arm and the machine monitoring my stats, the room is medical-related. I can also see that I'm not the only occupant here; it takes me a couple minutes to realize that the person in the bed, and surrounded by a distressing number of machines, is Gale. _At least he's alive; that's all that matters_ … One of the Leegs is also bedridden and unconscious, though with less machines hooked up to her; her haggard sister and Holmes sit at her side, while Mitchell and Jackson are positioned at the door. The last soldier is the also the first to notice my awaking, and she orders Mitchell to stop his pacing and fetch someone. 

Moments later, a young nurse rushes in, and after recognition kicks in, I shares at the blonde in shock for a while before the first raspy word comes tumbling out:

"Prim?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you weren't so sure before, this chapter should confirm that Peeta's such a paragon of mental health.
> 
> For the best atmospheric value, I highly suggest playing Gyorgy Ligeti's Requim in the background during the dream sequence, starting with the firestorm. It's bound to brighten up your day.


	37. Loss

We stare at each other for what seems to be several minutes before Prim rushes forward — practically hopping onto my bed in the process — and envelops me in a hug; I don't hesitate in reciprocating, despite the stiffness of my limbs.

"We've missed you…" she mutters into my neck before sitting up and looking at me critically. " _She_  misses you."

I can't speak right now without sounding like a rusty wheelbarrow full of gravel, so I just respond by pulling her back closer again. As much as I wish for the moment to last, Prim soon wriggles out of my grasp to plop back down and stand at my bedside.

After giving me a cup of water, she looks over the readings of the machines and begins asking me some question about how I'm feeling — apparently, I was out for almost a day's-worth of time — and I take a critical look at the youngest Everdeen. To think that about half-a-year has passed, yet Prim seems to have grown more in those past few months than in the past few years. It's not just physically, though the Capitol food must have been having a positive impact as she already seems to be taller than Katniss and is actually starting to reach my height from the looks of it. Rather, there seems to be a certain look in her eyes and expression that conveys an air of maturity and knowledge beyond her years; actually, if anything, she looks like she has matured too qucikly. Then again, a victor like me isn't one to talk.

The good feeling the reunion dissipates when I'm reminded of my roommates. Once Prim finishes with her checkup, I ask about Gale and Leeg. At my query, a neutrally-professional mask seems to slip over her face, which causes a feeling of anxiety to bubble up within me.

"Ms. Leeg suffered severe cranial trauma. Currently, we are keeping her in an induced coma to reduce the likelihood of long-lasting brain injury to her. At the very least her condition is stable with a high likelihood of considerable recovery." I notice that Prim doesn't say "full recovery", which is probably very little consolation to the twin who's still awake.

"And Gale?"

Prim at this point is making an attempt at strengthening that mask, but she fails at that. "Gale actually just back out of surgery, and they've patched him up and succeeded in removing all of the shrapnel from his body."  _Shrapnel?_  "Right now, he's not just stable but recovering, and he should be awake and active within the next day or two. So there's nothing to worry about." The pitch of voice rises up a notch in the end, which definitely doesn't assuage my concerns.

"Prim… what's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Okay, now Prim's a decent liar; I've found that out about her several times before. However, considering that lying has been a practical vocation of mine, I can catch the tell-tale signs that she's trying to hide something for me.

Despite knowing that she's keeping information, I make sure that my voice remains gentle but firm. "Prim," I repeat, "you know that I will find out sooner or later. I'd rather you tell me now and upfront."

She chews her lip for a while before sighing and suddenly gaining a collected and professional demeanor. "When we got Gale, he had sustained serious abdominal trauma. Not only that, but much of the shrapnel had reached the lumbar section of his vertebral column. Again, the doctors were able to remove all of the shrapnel, fix the internal bleeding, and repair much of the damage to his organs."

"But…"

"The damage to his spinal column was too great, and work on his abdomen, not to mention replenishing all that blood he lost, took priority during the operation. His vertebrae, muscular and connective tissue were able to be worked on, but—"

"No." I shake my head and try to drown out Prim, despite the rational part of my brain already reaching its logical conclusion; I don't care that I asked for an explanation earlier.

However, since the ball got rolling, the young nurse is now undeterred from explaining the rest; kind in her voice, but still undeterred. "Peeta—"

"I don't know a damn thing about medicine," I snap, "but I know there are stem-cell treatments, and cybernetic implants, and who-knows-what. They fixed Katniss' eardrum for fuck's sake. You can't tell me that—"

"Not only was the physical damage to the spinal cord too extensive, but the shrapnel also had contaminants. Maybe there's some long-term treatment or new technology down the road, but even then…" She takes a deep breath — as if delivering the news after a pause is going make things any easier — before getting to the point: "Gale's likely going to be paraplegic for the rest of his life."

As the information finally sinks in, I lie flat on my back and stare straight at the ceiling. It would be horrible enough for me to lose the ability to walk, but Gale? His mobility has always been a trait that allowed him to accomplish many of the things integral to his identity. "How will he hunt?"

The question comes out weak and pitiful, and Prim doesn't seem to be impressed. "You know that there are ways for paraplegics to get around and do things, including hunting. Gale's lucky that the paralysis isn't any more extensive. Hell, he's lucky to be  _alive_."

"Well, does he know yet?" When she shakes her head, I glower at her to growl, "Because, I bet you that he won't feel lucky."

Knowing that things are probably going to be unproductive with me, Prim just sighs and decides to focus her energy towards checking on the other patients.

I really shouldn't have been so hard on her, especially since we just met after so long. I know it's not her fault for either whatever happened to Gale —  _Speaking of which, what did happen to us?_  — and the operation wasn't her responsibility. However, I feel utterly helpless in the face of this situation, and this helplessness is accompanied with a feeling of extreme frustration. The Capitol was able to give Katniss back her hearing yet they can't—

_Wait… how am I able to talk to Prim?_

Now I don't feel just anxiety but the beginnings of full-fledged terror. Because I don't remember the Rebellion being anywhere's near to taking the Capitol, and if I'm sharing the company of Prim… Gradually, though, that terror turns into confusion since the soldiers from Thirteen seem to be able to have free reign of the place, which seems counter-intuitive of being in Capitol captivity. Still…

"Hey, um, Prim?"

"Yes, Peeta?" At least she doesn't seem to have taken my earlier bad attitude personally.

"Where are we?"

"Panem General. It's the main hospital in the Capitol."

"So I take it the rebels have reached this neighborhood already?"

Prim seems to mull my question around a bit, which earns a scowl from me.  _How hard of a question is this?_  "It's complicated."

"What do you mean by 'complicated'?" Both my fear and confusion are replaced by irritation by now.

"I think I can answer that." Boggs states as he comes striding into the room.

"Boggs, what's going on?"

"As Primrose here mentioned, you are in a hospital of the Capitol, which is quite a ways ahead of the rebel front. In fact, we are only a few blocks away from the City Circle. However, the Capitol no longer has control of it; we do."

 _Huh…_  "So how did we get here then?"

"You, Hawthorne, and Leeg 1 were in such critical condition that transporting you to a rebel medical facility was no option; they may have not even had the capability to treat you. So Doc pulled some connections — not to mention issued some threats — to get us to the hospital. After some tense… negotiations, everybody was admitted. To be on the safe side I called in some reinforcements, and we secured the facility and the surrounding block.

"In any case, operations of this hospital are more-or-less continuing as usual; fortunately most of the staff here seems to take their medical oaths seriously, and most of the Peacekeepers just want to survive through this. Of course, due to the nature of the situation, I'm the de facto head of security and Doc's the head of medical administration."

"Isn't Luce a bit young for that?"

Boggs shrugs. "He's the only rebel-affiliated medic we have in reach, and the position is mainly hands-off unless he chooses otherwise. Though right now, we're giving him some time so that he can… compose himself." A grim expression briefly peeks through the commander's stoicism, which has me slightly worried. "Anyways, just earlier, Cressida ended up sending out a broadcast to assure everybody that you're still alive."

"Yeah, about that… What happened to us?"

As Messalla walks in a connects some sort of device to the TV in our room, Boggs' stoic mask finally slips in full, and for the first time — even after all of the things we have endured — I see a true display of anger from him.

"We were betrayed."

* * *

The main footage has to have been recorded by one of the security cams near our camp. In it, Joe works on one of the already-exploded pods a little way out. During his inspection, a small window in the corner of the image shows the rest of the squad relaxing, including me talking to Luce.

A couple moments later, Jane approaches Joe and they begin chatting. The security cam doesn't have any audio, but the discussion seems friendly enough judging by the smile Joe is giving the auditor and the animated gestures she displays towards the engineer.

What happens next occurs in such a blur that it takes me a couple seconds to process the horror. One moment the two individuals are chatting amicably; the next, Jane closes the distance between her and Joe. The engineer has only a brief instant to widen his eyes when the auditor — no… the traitor — pulls his knife out of its sheath and plunges it into his neck; more specifically, she stabs right through the speaker in his collar. Right after that is when Luce stiffens and ceases his conversation with me.

As Jane yanks the knife out with a gush of blood accompanying it, a mixture of betrayal and panic crosses Joe's face as he clasps his hand to his neck and stumbles backwards into the wall behind him. However, while the engineer's distracted, the traitor isn't finished as she grabs Joe's glasses and unceremoniously yanks them right off of hiss face — same goes for his glove and some items on his forearm and vest — before running off as he slides down the wall and crumples to the ground.

The whole time that goes on, that woman has an air of casualness to her as if she's simply brushing flecks of dust from her shoulder.

By the time Luce arrives, Joe's already drifting in and out of consciousness and seems just barely aware of his surroundings. The Corpsman kneels down and immediately gets to work; however, unlike the usual professionalism I've seen him exhibiting when performing his duties in even the most stressful of conditions, with this case he's downright frantic in his actions as he tries to patch the wound up. The whole time, there's a look of desperation on his face and he's rambling nonstop; frankly, this makes me glad that there's no sound. Though even with the lack of sound, it isn't hard to decipher the main message being repeated:

"Please don't leave me."

Soon, be it from the way his chest has stopped moving or the fixed position of his eyes, it's obvious what state Joe's in. Except to Luce, who pauses just for a brief moment — likely when the readings show a flatline — before shaking his head in denial and actually doubling his efforts. However, eventually even he seems to acknowledge the worst as he slows his actions before reaching out a shaky hand to close Joe's eyes with considerable effort. While tears stream freely down the Corpsman's face and breaths come in hyperventilated pants, it's clear that he's still trying to keep a tight lid on his emotions by the way he grits his teeth when gathering the engineer's body in his arms to hold tightly against himself while rocking back and forth.

In his grief, Luce makes no sign of noticing the small group of loyalist militiamen — discernible by their informal attire and hodgepodge of weaponry — currently standing right behind him; they stumbled in the area just moments earlier. However, instead of taking advantage of the situation to attack, the loyalists simply watch things unfold with expressions of increasing amusement on their faces. The nearest militiamen even cracks a joke which makes the rest laugh.

Judging from the look on Luce's face which transitions from grief into an ugly and uncharacteristic combination of rage and hatred, those loyalists just made a fatal error.

I've been told that Guardian recruits get put through an operation after they pass their main training. Part of it is related to the same tech Capitolites use to help keep themselves healthy, sharp, and youthful even as they approach a hundred; sure enough, only the scars and hardened eyes betray the fact that many of the elder Guardians are actually a couple decades past reaping eligibility. However, Central's procedure supposedly involves something else. Whatever it is — I'm not too keen on learning the details — it gives the body one hell of a tune-up that goes deeper than extended youth.

I never really considered that little fact until now; probably because I've always seen Central fight with its vaunted technology and mutts. Now though, Luce gives me a small glimpse of what a Guardian's capable of when you strip all that away.

Before the enemy combatants can register anything, Luce whips around with a scream — the squad's startled reactions hint that it's the same scream that got my initial attention — and clamps his hand down on the jokester's throat; I can see the trachea buckle in the grip as the two fall to the ground. The Corpsman then uses his free hand to grab a fistful of the militiaman's hair and slam his head down repeatedly until the cobblestones are painted crimson and pink. All this takes less than ten seconds. When Luce stands back up, the other loyalists merely stand in shock at the grisly and unexpected sight. It's their mistake, and too late do they raise their weapons when the Corpsman draws his knife and lunges forward. 

Not a single bullet or arrow manages to be fired.

I try to recall Luce's kind and open smile when he first greeted me. I try to think back to his compassion as he treated both friend and foe after battle. However, as blade and bare hands leave their mark, the only thing I can think is that no human being should be capable of the savagery that I witness before me.

Around the same time the Corpsman goes completely berserk, I stand up and make my way in his direction with a considerable lead in front of everybody else. However, I don't get very far since a pod that's slightly ahead of me seems to let off a puff of vapor, resulting in me toppling to the ground; in turn, Gale yelps out my name and bolts to my side to drag my body to a more secure location. By the time the camera zooms in on me, the full state of the damage is clear, and it's not very pretty. Flechettes are embedded all over the left side of my face — the coat seems to have blocked the ones that hit my body — and where they have hit, dark markings appear to be radiating outwards from them in a branching and tortuous pattern. While the expansion of the markings slow after Gale and other members of the squad quickly remove the flachettes, it's clear that little good has been done judging from the way convulsions and spasms wrack my body.

There's a surreal similarity to my Games recap when I watch myself suffer like this.

Just when things couldn't get any worse, and just as they try to remove the flachettes from my face, a second pod explodes with a conventional ordinance and knocks Leeg 1 off her feet; she's actually a considerable distance away despite being the closest person to it. When her sister and Holmes rush over to her, she gets up and attempts to assure everybody that's she's alright… right before falling to the ground unconscious a few seconds later. Boggs starts bellowing for "Doc" to get his "ass over here!"

As the first pod goes off, Luce sheathes his knife before pulling out his handgun with an expression still filled with rage. He's about to run towards the direction of the traitor when he clearly hears the other pod. As Boggs and the other soldiers call for him, an obvious state of conflict settles on his features as he quickly looks back and forth between us and the source of his anger. Finally, his rage gets replaced with resignation, and he rushes back to us; though not before gathering Joe in his arms to pick up in a carry.

At Luce's return, Boggs looks about ready to tear him a new one, but the commander stops when he sees the body cradled in the Corpsman's arms. After Joe is gently set on the ground, Luce moves over to me, asks Gale which pod was set off, and injects my body with something that causes the convulsions to stop and the markings to fade a bit; however, I'm apparently not out trouble just yet but merely stabilized until more comprehensive care can be given. As Luce turns his attention to Leeg, he instructs Gale to remove from Joe all weapons and tech as well as any other item of value to be packed up; my brother looks hesitant to leave my side but eventually gives a grim nod and begins work on the body. While the Corpsman looks over the soldier under his care, he recounts to Boggs as to what happened. The commander responds by having Holmes, Mitchell, Jackson, and Chaff stand guard; Messala's even handed Leeg's dropped gun. Sure enough, loyalist units and a small contingent of Peacekeepers come running down the street but are immediately mowed-down under the barrage of sniper and heavy-weapon fire; the whole time, Luce hunkers over both of his patients to shield them.

Despite the recent success at repelling the enemy forces, the need to move to a more secure location has become obvious. So work is done to secure Leeg for transport on a stretcher while Chaff simply carries my unconscious form across his shoulders; for added protection, Joe's helmet is placed on my head. After everybody gets set up, the squad moves heads back towards the nearest rebel camp. However, Luce briefly stops and kneels by Joe's body — the Corpsman rests his forehead against the engineer's while muttering something; for some reason, he follows that up with a motion of tapping his own forehead, chest, and right and left shoulders — before he finally gets up to join the squad. Gale, seeing this, briefly doubles back to personally hand Joe's collar over to Luce, which is received gratefully-if-miserably. Once he gets a certain distance, the Corpsman pulls out a grenade, announces his intention with a "frag out" and lobs the explosive in Joe's direction; it turns out to be a powerful incendiary grenade, which not only begins to cremate the body but also blocks off the path through the street.

As the squad progresses onwards, Gale takes the lead, with his bow out and his hunter's senses on high alert. Boggs follows close behind while Jackson takes the rear, with the rest forming almost a protective cluster around the injured of us. Unfortunately, right when we're about to reach a small square, Gale's alertness isn't enough as he triggers a mine; not a Gamemaker-constructed pod, but a conventional run-of-the-mill bounding mine. Gale has no time to react as the device pops out of the ground and shoots up to just above his waist when it explodes. He seems merely stunned at first after he falls to the ground and confused as to why he's unable to get up.

That's when he pulls his hand back from his stomach to reveal the thick shiny coating of crimson that sends light waves of steam into the chilly air…

That's when he screams.

It isn't some heated yell born out passion or a loud call for a comrade to help. No… this is a continuous and primal wail born out of extreme agony and terror. Seeing Gale of all people, who has managed to grit his teeth and go through both a whipping and being shot, devolve into this wretched state… seeing him like that keys me into just how horrible the experience truly is. As if the scene isn't unbearable enough to watch, I can hear the sobs of "Mama" in between the pained shrieks.

Yet somehow, I still power through the footage, though not without occasionally glancing at the unconscious figure next to me.

When Luce gets to his side and starts working to patch the damage, Gale desperately clutches at him as the nearest lifeline; a problem considering that the Corpsman needs to have both hands to be able to work effectively. Seeing that dilemma, Boggs kneels on the other side and grasps Gale's hand as the cries fade into plaintive whimpers; those are even worse. After determining that there is nothing which will negatively react with any pertinent medicine, Luce mercifully injects in a sedative, and at last the whimpers gradually fall silent. To my relief, the cameras hang back during the operation, though I do briefly get a view of Gale's mangled abdomen when his now-useless armor is peeled back.

Eventually the bleeding manages to be stemmed and the wounds patched up, with superficial fragments of the shrapnel removed, but now it is clear that his condition is way past what rebel medical facilities can provide. Luce tells Boggs as much and mentions that he has contacts here in the Capitol; however, it is ultimately up to the commander as to whether to go with that course of action or not, with the obvious implication about what  _will_  happen if Gale doesn't get proper care ASAP. Granted though, just as obvious would be the risk of going into a Capitol hospital deep in Capitol territory.

In the end though, when Boggs looks between unconscious me, Leeg, and Gale, it's clear where his priorities lie, and he gives the affirmative. Right when the corpsman is about to make the call on Jackson's radio, however, an inbound unit is spotted, and everybody's guard goes up. Fortunately, it's the Coal Mutt contingent, with Ned and Purnia in the lead. Unfortunately, a good chunk of the soldiers appear to be severely injured and borne on several of the large walking machines; also, Johanna and Brutus are conspicuously absent. With contact established, the platoon rushes over to meet us. Ned is livid and even more foul-mouthed than usual as he jabbers and rants about how the pods around them went off for no reason at all, killing some of their members and injuring a lot more. All of the squads regrouped to the platoon to wander around the city and get in contact with our squad as they attempted to regain control of the pods, which they just managed to do in this area; for who-knows-what reason, Johanna and Brutus along with his primary machine and several of the soldiers including Thom, decided to go into the sewers. When Boggs informs everybody as to what happened, including Joe's fate, the young scientist flies off the handle completely and storms off.

Taking into account the new number of injured, and after checking on them, Luce finally reaches his contact and manages to get a medical hovercraft on route. However, the conversation is more than on the heated side, and eventually the Corpsman has to invoke some sort of unpaid debt and follows that up with a threat of what the Commandant will do to the hospital, and everybody working in it, after the war if either no help shows up or whatever help that shows up turns out to be a trap; the threat involves locking all the workers — "… and she  _will_  find all of you." — up in the building, followed by either pumping sarin through the vents or releasing a large group of mutts to roam the halls.

Boggs tells me he's bluffing. He also says that Luce attacked those militiamen with his bare hands just so that gunfire didn't alert the enemy to our presence. I decide to take the statements at their face value.

Before long a large hovercraft, painted white and emblazoned with two snakes coiled around a winged staff, settles down in the square, and a team of paramedics rushes out to get everybody on board. Besides the injured, all of the squad and a sizable group of the platoon boards as well, much to the paramedics' chagrin. Ned and Purnia hang back with a squad-worth of soldiers, as well as all of the machine and most of the mutts — control of a flock of the bird mutts is actually transferred to one of the soldiers so that they will follow the hovercraft to the hospital — with the promise of getting to the hospital on foot; Luce is about to ask Ned to do something, but the scientist cuts him off with a grim nod and states that he'll take care of it.

The ride back to the hospital is tense, with the paramedics casting cautious glances at the soldiers who are just as suspicious about how things are going to play out. During the ride, a barely-audible moan issues from my lips and the various medics comment on my situation, with Luce trying to assure me that I'm going to be fine. When the hovercraft touches down upon the rooftop of the hospital, already there's a committee waiting for us, and they don't seem to be welcoming.

The ensuing debate is even more heated than when the call for a hovercraft was made. When the hospital administrator refuses to admit or treat any of our people due to the fact that we aren't Capitol citizens — apparently, they don't even admit wounded Peacekeepers — and are rebels to boot, Luce becomes absolutely furious. The Corpsman states that, as physicians, they took an oath to treat any patient that comes to them, regardless of any background; that argument seems to hold no water with the administrator, through it makes the paramedics, doctors, and nurses around him uncomfortable. When it's clear things are going nowhere, the threat of what Porus will do is reiterated, and he immediately follows that up with another threat: if they are not let in and the administrator attempts to leave, or if Luce gets injured or killed, there are explosives rigged to him which will detonate; it won't hurt anybody in the hospital, but it  _will_  kill everybody in his vicinity. On the flipside, if they are admitted, not only will Luce assist wherever he's needed, the squad will also ensure that the hospital get spared any rebel onslaught when the front reaches the area.

A Head Peacekeeper, who introduces himself as Pyke — apparently formerly in charge of the security of the city itself — actually chuckles at that and has his soldiers step aside to allow us entry, despite the administrator's sputtering protestations; he follows up by speaking into his comm for all of his forces to stand down and not interfere when they see us. The caveat of course is that if any of our group causes trouble, the deal is off, which Boggs and Luce agree to. So we are admitted. For whatever reason, Boggs tells Luce and Pyke to hold back for a moment so they can discuss something; the cameras follow the patients, so I don't see what the discussion is about.

What follows is everybody getting settled while the injured are operated on. The soldiers that have either no or just minor injuries start bulking up the security alongside the Peacekeepers already there, with all the wonderful tension that comes with that despite orders from their commanding officers. To ensure that security is ensured, Boggs calls Porus for reinforcements, with the assurance that everything falls under his responsibility if something goes wrong; the reinforcement comes in the form of an entire squad-worth of Central technicians that arrives via a high-altitude-rapid-descent craft to avoid any AA fire from nearby buildings. The engineers immediately get to work with the crew from Twelve to secure all of the pods in the surrounding vicinity. Once it's clear that the hospital has been secured, Cressida, with Mitchell at her side, sends out a broadcast mentioning about how our squad was attacked but that I'm alright; the camera shifts to Boggs, who states that Panem General is now neutral territory so that armed incursions by either Capitol or rebel forces will not be tolerated.

In the meantime, Prim, who's been working at the hospital as an assistant nurse, screams my name and Gale's when she sees us and rushes to our side. The detail that is with her — from their uniforms, I recognize them as Snow's personal security — immediately reacts and not only moves to restrain her, but they also state that Gale and I are to be taken into captivity after we get treated. Boggs intervenes and coolly informs them that no such action is necessary; also that if Prim wishes to stay here, she'll stay here. The guards are about to retort, and rest their hands on their sidearms, but then see the hostile glances from all of the soldiers, even including a fair number of Peacekeepers, surrounding them. They depart from the hospital fairly rapidly without Prim.

And so here we are…

* * *

"I've talked with Command, and they told me that the woman was most likely a Capitol infiltrator, with 'Jane' being a constructed alias. They claim to be unable to get any records about her." While Boggs is explaining all of this to me, I can hear the doubt in his voice.

At this point, I don't know what to believe. Actually, I don't care. 

"Did they catch her?"

He grimaces and shakes his head. "No. By the time they used the tracking beacon on Ramire's device, it had been discarded. By that time, a lot of damage had been done."

"What do you mean?"

"You already saw what happened with the unit from Twelve. All over the city, pods went off and caused numerous casualties. With little coincidence, most of the activations occurred around units with attached Guardians. I'm also told that the Capitol has gotten wise; anyone with a patterned uniform is a priority target — even more than rebel officers — for loyalist sharpshooters."

"Have… have Ned and Purnia—"

"They just made it here right before you woke up. A little worse for wear, and I think their journey has them bothered, even that little redheaded monster; but no casualties. No word on the ones who went underground." Despite the tragic nature of the whole situation and implications of the last statement, I breathe a sigh of relief and even find some strange humor in the usually-proper commander referring to Ned in that manner. "Make no mistake; the front's still advancing and rebel victory is inevitable. But… the whole situation is FUBAR."

 _FUBAR…_  Yeah, that's probably the best term to use.

Traumatic brain injury, paralysis… death. And what did I get? A bad nightmare and apparently some facial scarring. The whole squad may have not been wiped out, but the core theme of my dream remains the same: I go through a situation unscathed while everybody else gets hurt; while everybody places me above all other priorities.

Agent of the Capitol or not, it was obvious what the woman's initial intention was: to kill  _me_. Well, she didn't succeed in that, but somebody else had to die in the process. Not to mention all of those who got killed and maimed in the following attacks. All because, for all my plans and manipulations, I was stupid enough to accept her without suspicion. 

While I cradle my head in my hands, I mutter, "So what's next?"

"What do you mean, 'what's next'? What's next is that we wait for this to blow over. You've gone beyond all your objectives. So you should rest."

Yeah… rest. Rest while everybody else is fighting and dying out there. Rest while the ones in charge scheme away. "Hell no."

Boggs pinches the bridge of his nose and is about to say something, but Prim beats him to the punch: "Dammit Peeta… you're going to kill yourself if you keep this up!"

I'll admit that I'm a bit taken aback at how caustic she has gotten lately, but — now bolstered by a new idea forming — I'm still undeterred and growl, "I'm not just going to sit idle while everything happens around us." I soften my voice to add, "Don't worry; I'm not asking to go out into the field or anything like that."

The commander narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. "So what do you want?"

"A meeting."

"A meeting?"

"Yeah. With you, Luce, Pyke, and any official in this hospital who's willing to listen. I also want the camera crew on hand as I intend to make an announcement."

Everybody seems to eye me critically for several good long minutes before Boggs huffs in exasperation, "Alright, we'll do this your way. I'll let you know when we're ready."

"Thanks. Say Prim…"

"What?" Somebody's still not happy with my decision.

I ignore it. "So you say that I'm more or less recovered?"

"Yeah, but—"

I throw my covers off, swing my leg to the side of the bed, and show my arm to Prim so that she can remove the IV.

"Good… because the 'sitting idle' part wasn't just figurative."

~oOo~

I find Luce in the main lounge, staring out the window while fiddling with something in his right hand; in his other hand is a bottle of liquor. He must have cleaned his uniform during the duration that I was out, as there are no markings of grime or… other things on it.

When I enter the room and before I can say something, he greets me in a light tone without turning around: "Hey, Peeta. How's Gale?"

Well, at least he doesn't sound drunk. Granted this is not what I was planning on talking about, but I decide to go with the flow. "Still sleeping, but they say he's stable. So he should be… recovered. Except for the… uh…"

"Paralysis. I saw the results." The Corpsman bows his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we have anything to reverse it back home either."

"Nothing to be sorry for. If it weren't for you, he probably wouldn't have survived. I—"

"Heh… these idiots are still using the caduceus as the hospital's symbol."

Also wasn't planning on the conversation jumping all over the place. "The what?"

"Those two serpents intertwined around a staff with wings. Some seem to have this impression that it represents medicine. An asklepian represents medicine. A caduceus represents commerce."

"I don't real—"

"It also represents lies, thievery, and death. Though I reckon it's quite fitting for this Whore of Babylon drunk on the blood of innocents and loved ones, even after we cast down her purple finery."

 _Oh no…_  Now I know where this conversation is going. And when I replay all of the clues put before me, I also realize how much of an idiot I've been for not realizing things sooner.

"Heh… to think… Joe was always the more careful one of us, and I was always the guy who would accidentally end up breaking something or getting myself hurt. Ironic for one specializing in explosives and the other being a medic, huh?"

I might as well state the obvious: "He wasn't just your friend, was he."

The only response Luce gives me is to hold up what he was fiddling with: a simple band of gold, small enough to fit around a finger and still stained with blood. And the full enormity of his loss hits me.

As memory of the bauble on Joe's collar resurfaces, I repeat out-loud, "I'm such an idiot."

The Corpsman simply places the ring on the windowsill to spin it with a snap of his fingers before stopping it with the tip of his index finger. Then the process is repeated. Spin… Stop.

"Ain't your fault. We were cautious about people knowing about the engagement during wartime, especially since we were going to be in the same unit. Too much risk of the enemy exploiting that connection. So we agreed to keep things secret from any outsider, even if they were an ally. Little good that did us…" Spin… Stop.

I walk towards the guy.

Spin…

"Luce, I'm so so—"

Stop.

Luce pockets the ring before finally turning around to look at me, and I stop in my tracks and actually take a step back. Because staring back at me are eyes no living person should have; clouded yet empty while containing such unmoving intensity that one questions as to whether they're even functional.

"You wanted to speak to me?" The way he delivers his query is cordial enough, but there is a note of finality that tells me he's in no mood for consolation.

And I know I'll get nowhere if I try. "I'm going to hold a meeting soon at the main boardroom."

"Thanks for the heads up. I need to get to work anyways."

"Are you sure…" I point to the bottle, which he looks at before setting it down.

"Only had a quarter and it was early in. I don't even officially start until tomorrow, but your concern is valid and appreciated." He brushes past me. "See you at the meeting."

As Luce's footsteps fade down the hall, I stare at the bottle full of amber liquid. I wonder what attracts guys like Chaff and Haymitch to the substance. Does it truly block everything out as they seem to imply? I also still wonder as to how they are able to get past the bitterness and burning. Then again, maybe that's the thing: that initial unpleasantness is a way to distract the mind while the rest of the drink works its magic. Before, other than a glass here or there at functions, I have never truly indulged. I have never put myself into the position of seeing what the fuss is about; earlier, I had other ways of distracting myself, and later, I've been too busy trying to keep alert for the sake of everybody else.

But now… now new scenes join ones from the Games to keep playing vividly in my mind: blood pooling on the pavement, Leeg keeping vigil, Gale crying for mom, empty eyes…

I tentatively reach for the bottle.  _Maybe I can get this to work for me. Haymitch's problem was that he overdid it. If I just control my portions, it won't be as bad. It's just a little—_

"Peeta?"

I quickly draw my hand back and close it into a tight fist as I turn to regard Messalla standing in the doorway. If he saw my planned course of action, he makes no mention of it.

"Yep," I chirp nonchalantly while rocking back on my heels.

"Just saying that everybody's ready when you are."

"Well, then… lead the way."

* * *

***The Presidential Mansion: A Couple Hours Later… Not Snow***

I admit that when I heard Peeta's squad was caught in an attack, a debilitating sense of dread settled over me. All they said was that he was alive and that he was holed-up in the main hospital. He never came to speak for himself his state of being. They didn't even show him in a hospital bed or something. What do they expect me to get from such an announcement?

The District Thirteen president with the slush-gray eyes wasn't helpful either in her introductory address. She made a brief mention about the "perils of treachery" and made a few consoling words about what happened — if she was trying to convey sadness, she's a worse actor than me — but most of the speech was just her urging the nation to embrace the new era.

I don't like her.

The only consolation I've been having is that Prim seems to be safe with the rebels. I have no shame in saying that there's some smug satisfaction in seeing the mansion's guard detail come back empty handed and in foul moods, especially since they couldn't take out their frustrations on either me or those who I care about without serious repercussions to themselves.  _Suckers…_

So it is to my surprise and relief when the TV flicks on and Peeta's there to make a statement. However, a chill in my blood replaces relief when I get a better look at him.

"Oh Peeta…"

I don't know how much of it is from whatever attack he was in, or if it's because previous footages were not close-ups with steady lighting, but Peeta looks even worse than before. He's not even in his uniform or a suit but pajamas as he sits at a conference table. His sunken eyes cast such deep shadows that they, combined with near-translucent skin, make his face look downright skull-like. At the same time, lines on his face add almost a decade to what should be his teenage years, and I swear that there are scattered streaks of gray amongst the natural lightness of his hair. What probably  _did_  come from the attack are the puckered torturous markings that mar the left side of his face.

Though that's not the worst of it; what's worse is that while his eyes have not lost their vibrant blue color, there is an intensity — unaffected by the occasional twitch from his left eyelid — in his forward stare that's unnerving. All while, with seeming unconsciousness, his hands make and unmake knots on an elaborate rope.

When Peeta finally speaks, the tired yet eerily collected quality to his voice offers no more comfort: "As you may have heard, there was an attack on my squad which required my treatment at Panem General. There may have even been rumors of my demise." He gives a hard smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, as can be seen, such rumors are unsubstantiated.

"But that is not why I have made this broadcast. I'm talking to you all because, after careful deliberation with the officials in this hospital, I would like to make an announcement:

"Starting tomorrow, Panem General shall not only be a neutral territory; it shall serve as a medical station and safe haven to all. Yes, all. It doesn't matter whether you are Capitol or a rebel-affiliated, military or civilian; we will offer assistance as much as possible to anybody in serious need of medical care. A truce zone if you will.

"Of course, there are certain ground rules. As of now, the truce zone not only includes the hospital, but adjacent surrounding blocks. Breaking of the truce within the zone is expressly prohibited; failure to comply will hold a severe penalty. And unless you wish to contribute to security, which we will have a procedure for, the bringing of weapons into the zone will be prohibited as well.

"Also, barring the elderly, disabled, and young children, those who are not in need of serious medical care will not be afforded free rides. That does not mean that you are not allowed in; rather it means that if you wish to reside under our protection, you should be willing to work for it by helping out wherever assistance is needed. And we will likely need help.

"Why are we doing this? Why am I giving this offer?" Peeta gives a weary sigh as he finally looks down and runs his hand through his hair. "It's because I'm tired. I'm tired of the politics. I'm tired of the scheming… I'm tired of the killing and of seeing so much loss.

"Don't get me wrong; I still believe in the whole concept of bringing about a newer, freer Panem. And I hold no illusions about the need for military action to achieve that. I just… I just want to see something other than destruction and pain to come out of this." He looks straight back at the camera with renewed determination. "Snow, you once told me that you are fighting to uphold stability over chaos. Well, you know that at this point, we are at the point of no return. Even if you don't have any shred of decency left in that twisted heart of yours, you should know by now that the 'game' is over. So if not decency, then pragmatism should tell you to end this peacefully rather than dragging this bloodshed out. In the end it's up to you."

Another sigh and his voice begins to crack; I half-expect for the tears to fall when I realize that he probably has none left to shed. "Again, this is the best I can offer. The best we can do now is hope for a better tomorrow. So long as there is no more blood… no more blood…"

Peeta finally looks away and almost a minute seems to pass before the footage ends after he mutters, "Cut."

"That poor boy…" The quiet statement makes me look at Effie, who has been standing right behind me for an unknown amount of time. She has been in charge of organizing events I've had to attend and, more importantly, is another source of extreme familiarity that has helped get me through this. Practically living with my escort for almost half-a-year has revealed more about her than the Capitol façade she wore for the past Games. Now, with no crowds to smile for, Effie's make-up and fashion has become more muted, and she no longer wears a wig even though she still styles her strawberry-blonde hair in a relatively extravagant manner; got to keep a hold of something familiar, I guess.

"He deserves better…" she continues before making eye contact with me. "You all deserve so much better…"

Well it's not like we can do anything about it. Unless… if the chatter I'm hearing about the situation in the city is correct…

"Hey, Effie," I casually bark.

She gives me the evil eye; manners are the other thing she keeps a close grip on. "Yes, Katniss?"

"I take it you're familiar with how everything works here?"

Effie straightens herself up with pride. "I would have to be to ensure that everything runs on schedule. Even the shifts of the Avox servers could have a bearing on where you fit into things."  _Excellent…_ "All the gears need to work and all that. Why?"

"There's this duo of especially-annoying security guards, and I want to know when their shifts are over so I can avoid them." This is actually true, though it's not the reason I want Effie's expertise at keeping tabs on the logistics and scheduling of this place. But now's not the time.

In any case, she doesn't seem to notice anything amiss before she departs. "I'll see what I can do."

Darius comes walking in with tray laden with lamb stew; it's my third for the day, and I can see the former Peacekeeper shaking his head as to how much food I'm go through.

As I finish off my stew, I write a short note on a napkin and set it next to the empty bowl. Upon getting the dirty dishes, Darius sees the message written:

" _You up for causing some trouble?"_

And for the first time after a long while, a familiar boyish smirk grows on his face.


	38. Haven

Even before day breaks, people come streaming into the safe zone after my announcement.

Checkpoints are set up at key locations so that refugees and the wounded are able to get through in an expedient yet highly secure manner. With the presence of the Central reinforcements and the Coal Mutts, all the pods and security systems in the surrounding area are carefully monitored, with stated warnings to prevent any attempted incursion by either side. After the security processing, those admitted gather around the square in front of the hospital for processing.

By now, the governing triumvirate of Boggs, Pyke, and Luce has become scarily competent at keeping operations running smoothly. While Boggs is in charge of the overall security operations — it definitely shows that he earned his commander status in the manner at which he organizes the checkpoints and unit rotations — he allows the Peacekeeper soldiers to mostly fall under the purview of his white-clad counterpart. Apparently, Karst Pyke is not only extremely respected by his men, but also has a positive reputation even amongst other Peacekeeper units; this helps in keeping things stable as they work — albeit grudgingly — alongside rebel soldiers. With Pyke's help as well, we are able to expand the range of the safe zone to not only include an additional block around the hospital, but also the entirety of the adjacent University of Panem's campus and surrounding area.

In Luce's case, he ends up issuing an extreme overhaul of hospital work structure. Any patient who does not have a debilitating or life-threatening condition is immediately released. There is initially some objection, but it is silenced when Luce calmly states that they can take up any complaints with Ned's mutts; everybody complies after that, and most take the option of working in exchange for being able to remain in the safe zone. The only spots in the hospital that are untouched are the pediatric, geriatric, and maternity wards; in fact, and in preparation for the coming refugees, they expand into the space freed up by the spaces available by the recent vacancies. With the release of the patients, many doctors find themselves drafted into providing their services to the wounded; again, sometimes it's with some… persuasion, which is especially the case with all of the cosmetic surgeons who were previously used to simply indulging the hedonistic whims of the Capitol. Except for those unable to help, nobody is allowed to be idle.

The scary part comes from how they address breaches of the pact. When we made the arrangement, it was agreed that we would look at all crimes equally no matter the background of the perpetrator or victim. Also, all punishments doled out would be recorded and not just broadcasted but played on loop at every entrance. And in the first couple days, there are some incidents with the appropriate punishments to go with them.

In general, the occasional brawl is allowed between the loyalist and rebel soldiers as long as it doesn't result in serious injury or disrupt operations; it helps release pent-up energy and settle grudges. However, any participant is required to have cleaning duty — read: cleaning up blood and waste — afterwards. If there is a severe injury, five lashes are administered before they have to commence cleaning duty.

Other incidents aren't dealt with as lightly.

Some loyalists attempt to smuggle in some weapons into area via collaborating Peacekeepers on duty at the checkpoints. When found out, the guilty parties are restrained and brought to Luce, who proceeds to use some of the smuggled weapons to smash the bones in their dominant hands before amputating them. After he has them patched-up, he then orders them to have cleaning duty for the rest of the duration, starting with the mangled remains of their own hands.

When the rebel front finally reaches the edge of the safe zone, a skirmish between rebel and loyalist forces spills into our territory, despite several warnings for them to cease-and-desist; several guards are killed in the process. After pacifying the forces via the administration of one of the pods and the intervention of several of the machines, the surviving participants of the skirmish are brought to Pyke on the steps of the hospital. The bound loyalists smile when the Head Peacekeeper personally puts a bullet in each of the rebel soldiers' skulls; the smiles disappear when he then moves to aim the gun at the first Peacekeeper.

The worst incident comes during the second day. A squad of rebel soldiers manages to break through the checkpoint and hole up in a residence. They manage to barricade themselves in a way that makes an incursion impossible without causing collateral damage to the families trapped inside. Unfortunately, they kill off the families anyways; from the screams, the women and girls are left last. They apparently take their time with it.

When the three leaders find out that there are no survivors from the civilians, they make the decision to use armored cars to barricade the entrances. Right as a couple cameras and microphones get put in place, Ned sends a swarm of his insects inside and posts several birds at the window to mob anybody who tries to escape in that manner. When one soldier does manage to escape through the window and tries to crawl away, the scientist casually tells Dewdrop to have fun with the escapee before turning his attention back to the building to continue neutralizing the threat. He definitely takes his time with it.

On the third day, there are no incidents of note.

Despite my pleas, Snow still has not given up. In fact, he has created a little human shield by having Capitol children and teenagers, of the families who have decided to take refuge in the City Square, penned up in front of his Mansion. Not sure what he's trying to achieve with that; it doesn't just delay the inevitable but helps disillusion many of those whom were once loyal to him.

Ironically, while the safe zone still remains stable, the area immediately surrounding it becomes host to the heaviest and most bitter fighting as the rebels advance and the loyalist forces get backed into a corner. To be on the side of caution, Boggs makes a statement that entry into the safe zone is a one-way path; soldiers are not going to be treated so that they can go back out to fight, and those who choose to accompany their wounded comrades permanently forfeit their weapons. If that warning serves as a discouraging factor, it sure doesn't show as the influx of wounded increases.

Before they can actually get treated, they have to be processed first, and that's what Luce has actually spent most of his time doing; he has delegated much of the responsibility to the paramedics and various medics who have joined us, but he's still the primary figure. As the Corpsman walks from wounded to wounded, he carries two markers: a black one and a red one. If he marks a person with a black "X", it means that they need to get serious medical attention and they're taken away to the hospital itself; a black dash means that while the condition is serious and warrants medical care, it's not a priority and gets set to a medical tent; no mark means that the injury is not serious and no medical care is going to be wasted on them. The mark that everybody fears however is a red dash; that means that the person is beyond saving, and the only thing the ones closest to them can do is keep company to the end, or bring them back to the weapons' storage area to end their suffering.

What's chilling is the completely detached way in which this is done; it's as if Luce is on autopilot the entire time. It takes only a minute or two at the most to make a judgment before he moves wordlessly to the next person. At each patient, he shows no reaction to the expressions of anxiety and hope from loved ones and comrades, nor does he have a reaction to the displays of despair when the red marker is brought out. There have even been times where he'd have to red-mark a fellow Guardian, and he'd still show little-to-no emotion about it.

The only time there was even a bit of deviation from the usual course of action was when a man approached him with a bleeding toddler in his arms; apparently the kid was hit by a stray bullet. Despite the desperate pleas from the father, the expression on the Corpsman's face remained neutral as he went for the markers. For a moment, his hand seemed to hover over the red marker; however, Luce shifted it over to grab the black one and mark an "X" on the toddler's forehead before moving on without the slightest bit of acknowledgment. I don't know whether the child survived or not; all I know is that the image of the father crying in relief and thanks, as he was escorted into the hospital, is one of the few good things that will stick with me for a while.

Despite Luce's current demeanor, Prim earnestly follows him like a loyal puppy. Even in this state, the Corpsman apparently still found the time to tell her about the offer to study in Central; suffice to say, she's thrilled at the opportunity. So she shadows him, takes notes, and helps out as things progress along; in fact one of the few times Luce speaks while on his "marker runs" is to explain things to the youngest Everdeen.

In the meantime, all I can do is wander around and try to comfort people as much as possible. Occasionally, I'd work in the kitchen — as much as possible with the material allotted — to make snacks that I can dole out amongst the people. Again, it's the least I can do. Nobody is in the mood for speeches; all they want right now is a friendly face, even if it's sometimes going to be the last thing they see. While I do this, I have Gale tag along.

Gale actually woke up around a day after me. I was in the room at the time for my mandated rest period — yes, the Corpsman is now ordering to stay in my room to rest at certain times, with guards posted and a threat to sedate me in case I don't comply; I usually spend most of my time with Leeg 2 to keep her company whenever Holmes or Mitchell isn't there — so I was also the first to notice the fact that he was now conscious. Unfortunately, I was also the one who was tasked with explaining everything when one of the first things he stated, after my name, was how he couldn't feel his legs; the whole time, I tried not to think about how uncharacteristically small and plaintive his voice sounded.

After the explanation, I steeled myself for his reaction, whatever it may be. I expected an expression of denial. I expected yelling and cursing, and even possibly some tears. Hell, I expected him to lash out and punch me in the face. In all honesty, he deserved to be angry about what happened to him, and I wasn't going to blame him for taking it out on me.

So what response did he give?

"Oh…"

That was all. Just a soft "oh", and after that monosyllabic answer, he just sat there to stare forward emotionlessly and silently; nothing else.

For some reason, Gale's reaction caused  _me_  to react… poorly.

Before I knew it, I was yelling in his face and throwing all sorts of insults into his direction. I'm not sure exactly why I flipped out; I think a part of me was hoping for him to be angry at me in response, as that would have been better than the current state he was in. However, Gale didn't respond at all except for simply looking at me silently and passively with these sad eyes; that just pissed me off more. When yelling wasn't enough, I started throwing things: the closest chair went crashing into the opposite wall, medicals trays were flipped and had their contents scattered across the floor, and Mitchell may have been hit in the face with a flying bowl of pudding.

Once I had expended my energy, and thoroughly trashed our side of the room in the process, I began to feel awful for my little outburst. So I cleaned up the mess, set the furniture back to where it originally was, reorganized everything, and apologized to Leeg and Mitchell; the former for making such a disruptive scene, and the latter for the pudding. Then I began apologizing profusely to Gale for all the things I said. Still no response, but by then, I finally got used to it.

When the doctors finally came in to do their check up on him, I turned to leave — or more accurately, go to my bed — since things were obviously not productive with me there. However, a still-strong grip on my forearm stopped me in my tracks and I turned to see Gale looking at me with a pleading stare. So I stayed at the bedside while the physicians hovered around and explained to Gale exactly the same thing I explained to him but in far more technical terms. Once it was clear that he wasn't going to respond to them either, they finally left after giving him the medicine to use with instructions.

I'm not saying that Gale's a vegetable. He takes his medicine, eats whatever food is in front of him, and knows how to go to the bathroom by himself — thankfully, a nurse was the one to show him how to use the facilities the first couple times — so it's not like he completely lost the will to live; at least I don't think so. However, other than that, it's like all non-essential functions are neglected. He just sits there with that blank expression and doesn't say anything; he'll nod or shake his head if prompted, but that's about it. Even when I bring him out with me, which is always, he shows little reaction to his surroundings and the people in it.

The only time I'd see Gale actually react to something is whenever someone may grip his hand — he grips back — or a small child would crawl onto his lap. I don't know if they can sense his need for company, if they desire company, or if they are just looking for a warm spot to sit. In any case, whenever the kid would perch there, it's like that caring instinct in Gale gets activated as he would proceed to wrap his arms around them and cling tightly; it no longer seems to matter that these children are Capitol-born, but rather that they are youngsters to care for. Of course, once the child leaves, he's back to being super depressed; well, as opposed to regular depressed, I guess.

On the fourth day, Thom and several of the guys from Twelve resurface. And I mean that in the most literal way possible.

They all look to be more-or-less unharmed, though they seem to be a little worse for wear; all of them are bandaged here and there, and Thom walks with a limp. Oh yeah, and they all smell like shit.

After they try, unsuccessfully, to coax a reaction from Gale besides a noncommittal grunt in greeting, Prim brusquely tells them to go take a shower and get looked at before they infect themselves and everybody around them; of course, they don't hesitate to try and give her a hug, which she successfully manages to maneuver away from. As they start heading to the showers, I briefly stop Thom.

"I thought you went with Johanna and Brutus. Why aren't they here?" Frankly, I was worried the entire past few days about the fate of the group. From what I've been told, a good chunk of the loyalist forces went underground as a way to easily ambush rebel forces and evade detection from combat engineers. At the same time, reports started coming out about attacks on those forces by a bunch of machines and an "axe-wielding maniac"; so I guess there's that…

Thom doesn't seem uncomfortable by my question, which seems like a good sign, though a bit exasperated. "Last I checked, those two are fine. In fact, they sent us ahead to let you know that… uh… that… huh." As the former coal miner trails off and looks over my shoulder, I turn around to see what has distracted him.

Coming down the main boulevard towards the checkpoint is a convoy of people. The more I take a look, the more I realize who they are; especially since the road way goes directly to the City Circle. As they walk towards us in a sizable crowd and flanked by Peacekeepers, many of the Capitol kids look hungry, and all look scared and are shivering from the cold.

I wonder if that means that Snow has finally decided to call it quits. Either way, at least he's getting the kids out of the way.

Right as they are about to reach the checkpoint, however, another surprise greets us. A hovercraft, with emblems denoting it belonging to the Capitol, flies overhead to drop several packages over the kids. As the hovercraft flies away the packages open up into those recognizable silver parachutes from the Games. The kids, recognizing the gifts, seem a bit confused at first, but they gladly reach out to grab the parcels. No doubt they hope for a warm meal or drink.

_Huh… it seems a bit redundant for them to drop gifts like that. But hey, whatever relieves the bur—_

I don't get to finish my train of thought as, to my shock and horror — not to mention everybody else's — the parcels explode in a great collection of concussive blasts which are then accompanied by the startled pained shrieks of the young. As the initial residue settles, a delicate haze seems to rise above the horrific scene. Torn limbs… broken bodies… blood… so much blood…

 _Not again_ __…_ not again…_

A good portion of the kids are still alive. Some are thrashing or twitching on the ground, but others seem to be relatively unharmed, albeit in shock. The Peacekeepers guards — at least those not caught in the blast — look utterly horrified as to what just happened and don't object when a bunch of rebel medics come running in their direction.

"Secondary explosives."

I'm shaken from my horror to look in surprise at the source of the statement. Gale stares at the scene wide eyed and unblinking, with his already drawn skin disturbingly pale now. I'm too surprised at his sudden vocalization to respond properly, and he doesn't hesitate to repeat himself.

"Secondary explosives. Tell them to keep away. They need to keep away!"

Fortunately, Boggs is nearby and seems to get the message as he quickly speaks into his comm. Seconds later, his voice is amplified and blared over the speakers to warn everybody to stay away from the area as the whole thing is a trap.

Some of the medics and remaining Peacekeepers appear to understand and begin backing off, but the good portion actually dart into the carnage and back out with an injured child in their arms; occasionally they have to yank a container from a youngster's clutches and chuck it as far away as possible. The whole time, the haze actually seems to be coalescing into a small cloud; I soon realize that it's actually emanating from the unexploded parachutes.

Someone nudges past me and I see the tattooed owner of a patterned uniform striding purposefully towards the scene.

"Luce, what the hell are you doing?" I yell as I briskly walk after him. "Didn't you hear the warning?"

"Don't care…" comes the muttered reply.  _Sonova…_

Knowing that just trying to talk to the Corpsman isn't going to go anywhere, and that he's definitely starting to get too close, I decide to take the only course of action available: I sprint forward and tackle him.

"Get off me, Peeta!" I may have tons of wrestling experience and Hunger Games training, but it turns out that trying to keep pinned a guy who has much more military training in unarmed combat is a bit more challenging than expected. Any attempt of mine to get him in a lock is met with him easily wriggling out of it. Very soon it's clear that I'm going to lose my grip completely.

 _Need to stop him… Need to — oh… hello there…_  "The Commandant told me to keep you from doing something stupid." Upon seeing the tranq pen secured to his belt pouch, I quickly grab it and flip the safety off. "And this… this is pretty stupid!" I grit out while slamming the pen into his thigh.  _Gotcha._

"I said… get. OFF!" Luce doesn't allow me to savor the moment of triumph as his fist comes in contact with my abdomen, resulting in my last meal landing on the pavement while I spasm and clutch my stomach. As my vision clears, the Corpsman stands back up and gives me a sad and apologetic look before hardening it into one of determination.

However, he's barely able to turn around and take one step when the rest of the parachutes go off.

It's actually slightly fascinating in a way. Time slows as the containers explode; from those explosions, flames seem to travel along the path of the cloud, turning it from a vaporous haze into a incandescent fireball. All of the nearby snow melts away and evaporates as the expanding wave of heat washes over everything. There is nothing to be done for those kids still left in the initial radius of the explosion, as well as a few medics and Peacekeepers still caught in the middle; a final series of screams go up as their bodies blacken and contort. Even some not touched by the flames are close enough that their uniforms catch fire, causing them to fall and writhe on the ground.

As the fireball collapses in on itself and rises up in a plume of smoke and residual flame, the Corpsman stands motionless while staring at the scene that silhouettes him. Without any prompting, he slings the medical kit off his shoulder, casts it to the ground, and falls to his knees. Prim runs to his side right as the sedative finally kicks in and he topples over to lay unmoving.

During this time, all I can do is watch as this improvised pyre sends blackened smoke into the sky. Though in the end, it's just one out of many scattered throughout the city.

* * *

***The Presidential Mansion: Several Minutes Later***

Anders — it's a new era after all; might as well start referring to these Avoxes by their original names now — scurries out of the room as fast as possible after the recording had finished downloading. It trust him to forward my message when the time is right.

Well I guess this is it then. My last powerbase has turned against me. Even my own granddaughter had completely disowned me before I had sent her to a safe house at the beginning of the invasion of the Capitol.

Oh well, I've had a good run. It's just these last few minutes which will likely be unpleasant. A fair balance.

And that child… Well, as frustrating as he was, I have to say that he has played the game quite well, which is more than I can say for a certain other player. I wonder if Mellark has any idea that things are not quite yet over for him. I admit that it's a pity I'll be gone; I very much would like to see how he deals with what's coming next. Because things are definitely going to get interesting…

"You wanted to see me?"

I turn and smile at the source of the question and beckon her forward. "Ah, yes. Come in Katniss… Come in…"

The girl is still pretty mobile in spite of being towards the end of her second trimester. Oh yes,  _that's_  another thing I wanted to see Mellark deal with. But no matter…

As I regard the girl, I notice that she seems to be way more confident than usual. This rebel victory must be getting to her. Another reason to end this as soon as possible. "I'm sure that you have heard the news. Or at least the people trying to storm this very building."

"Yeah, I've heard."

"Then you probably know that my time is at an end. And I'm sure that that you are itching to go your own way. Because of that, I'm sure that you are happy to know that this marriage has been annulled."

"Really?" That news seems to surprise her; at least I know that I have some tricks left.

"Yes, really. I fact, it has been annulled since the first rebel soldier set foot on Capitol soil. Which is fortunate as trying to get that done with the grid down would have been very difficult. So congratulations, Katniss _Everdeen_ : you are now a free woman." Before Katniss can say anything, I add, "With that in mind…"

I point towards the mantle. Sitting on there is a silver bow with a single arrow; the same one that huntress utilized in her Games. When Katniss looks back at me with raised eyebrows, I smile and dab my lips; probably the last time I'll need to do so. "I'm sure that you probably want to get something off your chest, and I know that you aren't the type to miss. Thus, I am giving you the option. It's much more preferable to what that mob has planned for me in a couple minutes."

Katniss walks over to the bow and picks it up to examine it. "You're right, Snow: I would be getting a lot off my chest by taking you out with this. And I don't think that being torn to pieces by some angry mob fits you."  _Some people are too easy…_

But she just sets it back down. "However, I don't want to strain the baby."  _What._

Before I can say anything, she calmly explains, "You said it yourself: I'm a free woman. Well, I'm done being a piece in your games. Besides…" She gives a smug smirk. "I would like to reintroduce you to somebody."

As Katniss finishes her statement, the acrid scent of raw sewage hits my nostrils and is accompanied by a rhythmic clicking sound. And in saunters what looks to be a uniformed — great… it's one of those lunatics from Central — slightly-built teenage boy with mousy hair; the face is obscured by a gas mask and those glasses that they tend to be so fond of. His boots make squishing noises as they track… unspeakable things onto the plush carpet. Behind him, a group of bloodstained machines roam the halls alongside a far more athletic-looking boy.

That's when I see the source of the clicking noise: a taloned prosthetic hand casually tapping away at the blade of an ax.

And then I realize that I'm not looking at a boy.

While my probable executor stares at me, Katniss decides that it's time to take her leave and curtsies with an unmistakable expression of mocking disdain. "Thank you for the hospitality. And I would like to assure you: I'm going to make sure that this boy grows up to become everything that you're not." She pauses. "Except that he'll be smart and good with words. I'll admit that you have those qualities. But then again, so does someone else, and he's several times the man that you can even hope to be. Goodbye, Snow. And have fun…" And she disappears around the corner.

I pour myself one last glass of Scotch as the ax-wielding victor takes of her mask. She fixes me with a predatory smile and gives a simple greeting to start — or finish, I suppose… — things off:

"Hi!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving it up to you to visualize what happens next.
> 
> I promise the next chapter will be more uplifting. Or at least more uplifting in comparison…


	39. Comfort

The Capitol has been taken.

The rebels are victorious.

Snow is dead.

And yet they still won't let us see Katniss.

I mean it's been over half-a-day since Johanna painted the walls of Snow's office red; how much questioning do they need to do? Boggs even told me that they already got the general story already.

Apparently, being the one to kill Snow has always been priority for Johanna. So once the pods went off, it was decided that most of Twelve's platoon should simply rendezvous with our squad to get medical attention. In the meantime, that small contingent would take to the sewers and slowly inch and battle their way to the Mansion.

In the meantime, Katniss heard about the group and decided to make it a bit easier for them to get to their intended destination. So with information about the logistics in the complex, she had Darius pass said information amongst the Avoxes in the tunnels to reach the incoming fireteam, making it easier for them to infiltrate the Mansion. After dropping off Thom and the rest of the Twelve guys at the hospital, Johanna and Brutus took care of the security and were greeted by Katniss at their arrival. Then Johanna walked into Snow's office and… yeah…

I made a mistake of asking for proof of Snow's demise, and Boggs provided the pictures. I regret that now.

So for whatever reason, most people in the Mansion are being detained, though several have been released. Ms. Everdeen, Portia, and the girl Avox — turns out her name is Lavinia — were the first to be let go; the reunion definitely occurred in high enough spirits — at least for the circumstances — as I was genuinely happy to see that they are alright. Effie, Darius, and Brutus were released next; that reunion became considerably less pleasant when Ned told Brutus exactly about what happened to our squad. Now is just the wait for the two girls.

I bet that Coin wanted to have Snow's execution public and with all the pomp and fanfare; so she can't be pleased about having that opportunity taken from her. Well too bad for the president; the people already know Johanna killed Snow and Katniss helped her, and now those two victors are both the true heroes to the Rebellion.

At least something good came out of this fiasco.

In the meantime, while this wait goes on, I watch over Gale.

Didn't think it was possible, but now he actually looks much worse than before. Previously, he was just extremely despondent and listless. Now… well now, on top of the usual unresponsiveness, his expression seems set in this wide-eyed and unblinking — seriously, he doesn't ever blink — stare that goes past any fixed point into the beyond. If I didn't know Gale, I'd probably avoid him as much as possible; however, I'm too busy worrying about his state of being and the possibility that he may do something… unpleasant. The only hopeful sign is that he's still eating instead of ignoring his food, so there's that… I guess…

While I look after Gale, I constantly attempt to bring out a reaction by having conversations with him. In other words, I would say something and then wait a moment in the hopes that he would reply, and if he doesn't reply — which is always — then I simply fill in the blanks in my mind and continue on as if he actually did say something. I probably sound crazy in the process, but it keeps my mind preoccupied and busy; it also serves as a good way to practice my speaking skills.

Granted, while Gale makes no sign if he's annoyed — or anything really — with my yammering, Leeg 1 occasionally lets her displeasure known by chucking the nearest item at my head. Leeg actually woke up a couple days before the bombing and, all things considered, seems to be alright with no major long-term physical or mental trauma. Well, except for the expressive aphasia; she can read, write, and listen fine, but whenever she tries to speak, everything comes out stuttering and jumbled. As a result, her disposition is currently in a perpetual, if understandable, state of crankiness. At least it hasn't impacted her aim; most of her throws succeed in reaching their target, though I'm starting to get better at ducking.

I'm in the process of explaining my confidence to Gale about the progress in medical technology — that they are going to find a new treatment to get him on his feet again — when he says his first words since the bombing:

"Doesn't matter."

The shock of hearing him speak without it being an emergency almost makes me not actually hear the words themselves. However, once it hits me what he said, my ecstasy about the progress made gets replaced with a twinge of irritation. "What do you mean it 'doesn't matter'? I would think that you'd want to walk."

"I did…" Despite being raspy from a lack of use, Gale's voice sounds painfully hollow; enough to make me forget my irritation. "It's just… Even if they did find a way to give me back the ability to walk… I wouldn't deserve to have it.  _This_  is what I deserve…" he mutters while gesturing at his wheelchair. Holmes and the Leegs seem to sense an uncomfortable conversation coming as they give some half-hearted excuses to vacate the room, leaving me to deal with this by myself.

"Don't be ridiculous," I scoff. "How do you deserve to be paralyzed for li—"

"Peeta," he interrupts while making eye contact with me. Or at least I think he's making eye contact; the distant focus still has not left his gaze, which makes returning said eye contact very uneasy. "How do you think I knew that there was a secondary explosive?"

Memories of Gale's absence due to his R&D work surface up in my mind, but I attempt to push them down. Because I have a very good idea about what he's implying, and I very much would like to wish otherwise. "Well, you have familiarized yourself with the weapons of the ene—"

"Just for once, Peeta, stop with the bullshit." If anything, the lack of anger in his voice makes the delivery of the statement even worse. "I know what I saw: fragmentary explosives detonated in the initial stage; volatile vapor released during the second stage and at a timed manner to allow others to arrive in a rescue attempt; secondary explosions detonated to cause an incendiary deflagration to take out anybody in the area… You can't tell me those weren't my bombs."

My blood runs cold at the description of the weapon. Not just about the innate cruelty behind the tactic, but also the underlying implication. Because if Gale was the one to develop those explosives, that means my suspicions have just been confirmed about the bombing. Snow is a cruel, and many times petty, man who has no qualms about hurting innocents; however, he isn't stupid. It's one thing to hold children, of his constituents, hostage to maintain an air of fear; it's a whole other thing to eliminate those hostages and cause said constituents to get riled up. There is no benefit to that action — there's only cost — and Snow is never one to commit to an action that has no benefit to himself. That only leaves one possible person responsible; the one who most likely stands to gain from Snow's drop in popularity among the Capitolites.

As I'm piecing together the puzzle, Gale keeps talking: "After the first explosions went off… there was this child. He couldn't have been any older than Vick; actually, despite his colored hair, he looked just like Vick. Anyways, after those explosives detonated, most of the children were downed or stunned; except him. He just stood there, with most of his clothes blown off and the ragged remains of what used to be a baby in his arms, and I swear that he was staring right at me; staring as if he knew that I was behind this. He kept on staring until his face was completely burnt off by the flames," Gale murmurs before rubbing his hand across his face several times. "And he keeps on staring at me in my mind. The best part… the best part is that he's not alone."

_No, the best part is how familiar this sounds…_

"A Peacekeeper I killed back in Twelve… the suffocated masses from the Nut… they all are watching me. Letting me know what a monster I a—"

"Gale, that's enough!" I snap as my hands slam down to grasp the handles of his wheelchair, which actually causes him to flinch back. But I'm too on-edge to feel bad about it; this is too familiar for my liking, and I don't like the way he's tearing himself apart over this. After taking a few breaths to steady myself, I soften my voice. "You're not a monster. You weren't the one who dropped the bombs."

"Haven't you listened to a damn thing I've been saying? I may have not been the one who was in that hovercraft, but I came up with the sick tactic in the first place. I was also the one who willfully decided to bury thousands of people alive; yes that move was a valid strategy, but I also didn't give a damn about the civilian collateral. How can you say that I'm not a monster?"

"Because a real monster wouldn't be all torn up about this."

"If I'm not that, then what am I?" Gale looks earnestly desperate for the answer.

I'm debating about giving him that because I'm not sure how he'll react.  _But at least he'll know that he isn't alone…_  "Gale, do you remember back when we were flying back from Eight to Thirteen?"

My question seems to be slightly random to him judging from the look of confusion forming on his face. "Yeah… You were having a bad dream at the time."

"And you were wondering about them. For which I told you that I would try to explain later."

Gale nods his head, but still says, "I don't get what this has to do with my question."

I give him a grim smile in response, "It has everything to do with your question. Because the things you've done, the reasons why you did them, and the price you've paid as a result… it tells me very clearly what you are."

"And that is…"

"A victor."

Gale's taken aback by my answer and seems to be mulling it over in his head. "Huh… that's… huh… heh… hehe…"

Before long, his chuckling escalate into full-fledged giggles. However, I know what's probably going to come right on the heels of the laughter.

So without any prompting, I kneel in front of my big brother to gather him into my arms. Sure enough, the laughs turn into sobs as he buries his face into my shoulder. He actually tries issuing a set of broken apologies — like he's being a burden or some other nonsense — but I shush him while murmuring that it's all right. After a while, it actually starts becoming uncomfortable to stay kneeling — not to mention that my shoulder has become extremely wet with facial leakage — but I don't dare move from where I am during this stage. I may not exactly know what is going on in Gale's head — same way that I don't exactly know what's going on in Katniss', or Haymitch's, or Johanna's — but that doesn't mean that I don't have a good idea. And what I know is this: nobody decent should ever suffer alone.

This is the best comfort I can give. It's not much, but it's what I have.

By the time that almost an hour is up, Gale has finally stopped crying, but his head's still on my shoulder, and I haven't broken the hug just yet; not until he's ready. With a quick knock on the doorframe, Leeg 2 pokes her head back in — she doesn't comment or give any acknowledgement about the hug, which I appreciate — to say that Katniss has been released and is going to be here in around fifteen minutes. At this, Gale leans back, which I take as a cue to break away.

"You should get ready," he says. To my relief, his voice has some depth; there is still that weary quality to it, but much of that seems to be more from exhaustion than anything else. Also while his eyes still haven't quite lost the distant stare — frankly I think that there's going to be at least a trace of that for a while — they seem to have more life in them. There's still room for improvement, but it's a step in the right direction.

"Doing that right now," I chirp with a smile as I strip off the fluid-logged shirt. My smile slips away when crouch back down to look seriously at Gale and give him this warning: "Gale, you need to promise me that you won't make any public announcement about where those bombs came from."

He understandably looks incredulous. "Why? People deserve to know what happens."

"Yes they do. But now's not the time. More importantly, Coin's going to deny everything you say. She'll simply dismiss you as some shell-shocked cripple who's angry at the world and is trying to get back at her by spreading lies. And with the state you're in right now, it won't be hard for her to do so."

"How are you so sure about this?" Besides his irritation at restrictions placed on him, Gale actually seems to be partially in awe.

I really do wonder what it says about me being able to to think up such a scenario so easily; nothing good probably. But there's no use moping about it, and I might as well put it to some use in navigating this mess.

"I've been around her long enough to have gotten a good feel for things." Which is also true. "But anyways, if she's successful in weathering your accusations, you can bet that she'll publicly consider you to be an enemy. And if that happens, you better hope that our family's someplace out of reach. Which means that Twelve will likely be off-limits."

Judging from the way he blanches, it's clear that I've made my point. "Alright…"

"Good… however, that's not the hardest thing I'm asking you to do."

"What's that then?"

"I'm going to need you to actually be cordial — genial even — if Coin, or any of Thirteen's leadership, decides to talk to you or make any public appearances with you at their side."

"Wha-"

I hold my hand up to silence him. "Command hates me and vice versa; it's pretty much  _the_  open secret. You however… despite your association with me, they still somehow consider you to be a war hero and a soldier who performs admirably in combat and with great loyalty to the cause. Staying friendly should remove most suspicion off you in case things get drastic. Does that all make sense?"

I don't blame Gale for looking at me like I've become a paranoid lunatic; in all honesty, I probably  _am_  one. However, to his credit, he nods his head, though not without muttering, "I've got to get you away from those books…"

"Eh… possibly," I state with a shrug. "In any case, you should make yourself look a bit presentable as well."

"Wait, why?"

Gale's question is answered with a clean shirt flying into his face; he wiped his eyes and nose beforehand, so all's good. "Why do you think? I'm not leaving you up here, and I'm also not the only one who means something to  _her_." When he's about to object, I add, "And wallowing is not good reason to avoid saying hello."

Now that earns a scowl.  _There we go…_ "I'm not wallowing."

"Then act like it."

After we get done spiffing up, Gale asks me with a suspicious glance, "This isn't by any chance a way for you to rub this in my face."

 _That strongly assumes she feels the same way about me as I do about her._ In any case, I may be imagining things, but I think I can actually see the hint of a genuine smile on his face. So I go with that and clasp my hand over my heart. "Aw, Gale. Where ever do you get such hurtful…  _hurtful_  ideas?"

He actually snorts in response. "I have no clue…"

"In any case, if our reunion involves a nice long kiss," —  _Hah! Like that will happen_ _…_  — "can you promise me that you won't start rampaging?"

"Well now you're asking a bit too much. Playing nice in front of bitchy presidents and corrupt COs, I can do; not going on a rage-filled rampage at the sight of you two kissing is a pretty tall order."

"Just try not to go after any deranged Head Peacekeepers. I don't think there are syringe-wielding mayor's daughters around to bail you out this time."

"She is pretty good with that syringe." This time, there's no denying the smile on his face. "Though I'm not the only one who had to be bailed-out."

"I…" I raise my hand to make a counterpoint but ball it closed when I realize there's none to make. "DAMMIT!"

"Did I just beat the all-mighty Peeta Mellark in an argument? With words?" Upon that realization, Gale raises his fists into the air in a gesture of triumph. "WHOO!"

"Yeah yeah," I mutter as I wheel him out of our room and to the elevator. "Enjoy your little victory while it lasts."

In the end, I'm just happy to coax some emotion out of him, and it not involving a variation of depression.

By the time we get to the front of the hospital, the car is just pulling into the drive.

Johanna is the first to disembark from the back of the vehicle. Cheers erupt from the crowd as she raises one of her axes in the air; to my amusement and satisfaction, the security escorts from Thirteen stay a good distance away. Brutus and Ned don't hesitate to run over to greet the ax-wielding victor however, and Brutus actually places her on his shoulders to the increased volume of the surrounding people. When Johanna sees me, all she does is smirk and make an aside glance to the car.

And that's where  _she_  is.

By now, Katniss' belly is definitely prominent, yet right now that doesn't seem to impede her movement too much judging from how easily she appears to exit from the vehicle and adjust her dress. Attempts from security to help her are met with an impatient wave.

I decide to move forward, but the brakes on the wheelchair suddenly get activated, which causes me to give a puzzled and exasperated look at Gale. However, my incoming lecture dies en route at the sight of the small serene smile on his face. When we make eye contact, all he does is give me the slightest of nods and then gestures forward with his head. The message is clear and I nod back before striding towards Katniss.

It's not long before she sees me. Her expression shows a mixture of relief and… something else that I can't put my finger on. Worry? Frustration? Probably both judging by the way she moodily shoves a guard out of the way — he has almost a foot on her and yet is sent stumbling;  _dumbass_  — as she herself strides towards me with that trademark scowl on her face. I pick up my pace to close the distance, my arms outstretched to give her a hug in greeting.

I'm just about to say her name when her lips crash against mine.

And, if only for this moment, everything else goes blank and simply ceases to matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the event that many seem to have been waiting for. I'll let you fill in the blank as to how the reunion goes from here.
> 
> On another more cheery note, going by the description in MJ, the bombs were indeed not just two steps but had a different type of explosive for each step. Especially since there weren't flames in the first blast. This is where the fuel-air idea came from, though this one's a deflagration not detonation.


	40. Mothers

Katniss and Gale insist on accompanying me on my trek through the Capitol. Finally I relent — stupid Seam stubbornness… — and allow them to come along, though I tell them that they are to hang back when we reach finally our destination. As an extra precaution, Gale's given a shotgun and one of the display glasses, while the engineers have Dewdrop and Arezzo shadow us in the background; it's still taking a while for Katniss to get used to having a mutt within close proximity to us, not to mention serving as an escort.

When I told Pyke what my intent was, he didn't hesitate in offering his assistance and — I guess "former Head Peacekeeper" is a better term right now; I wonder what will happen to all the Peacekeepers who survived, be they defectors or true loyalists — went through the thankfully-intact Peacekeeper archives with the information I gave. After some searching, he finally gave me an address in a neighborhood towards the transportation sector and adjacent to District Town.

Even though it would take some time, I decide make the journey on foot. Fortunately, Gale's moving by himself on his motorized wheelchair — things get a bit interesting wherever the war has made the terrain a bit on the rough side — while Katniss is able to ride on the back of the machine accompanying us if she gets tired.

As we get closer to the neighborhood, I begin noticing something about our surroundings. Even taking into account the toll enacted by the war, the conditions of the area seem to become more subdued and even a bit deteriorated at points. While they still wear clothes a bit more colorful than that of the districts and would probably be considered prosperous by Twelve standards, the people here lack any sort of major bodily modification or fashion accessories; one can even see that some people are obviously elderly. I vaguely recollect that apparently this part of the Capitol actually harbored a lot of rebel sympathies. When we finally reach our destination, I'm stunned at how dismal the neighborhood is. The graffitied buildings here aren't just low-key; they are downright decrepit. Boarded-up doors and windows hint at vacancies. The inhabitants lack that casual air, which I've come to associate with the Capitol, as they walk along pathways that are in a complete state of disrepair. Panhandlers sit on the sidewalk while morphling addicts can be seen in the alleys here and there. Part of me suspects that it was like this even before military operations swept through; in fact, there is little evidence that the war even touched this part of town.

_If Snow couldn't have kept his affairs in order in his own front yard, how could I ever have thought he'd be able to address the situation in the districts?_

The narrow house that we come to isn't really in better shape than the rest; however, an earnest effort seems to have been made to keep it tidy. It's conspicuously free of graffiti and there is also a lack of debris out front.

With the request for Katniss and Gale to stay where they are, I slowly approach the front entrance. Each step feels like an additional weight on my feet until I'm finally at the threshold. After a few steadying breaths, I rap my knuckles lightly against the door.

_Alright, just say your little apologetic speech, give them the stuff, and leave. They probably don't want to see you or anybody associated with the Rebellion anyways. The sooner you git the better._

After a few minutes, the door opens, revealing a middle-aged woman with an unadorned face and lines on her eyes likely not to have been just been caused by time. A couple young kids — girl and boy; both probably around Vick's age — curiously peek around her to look at the new visitor. Almost immediately, an expression of recognition shows on the faces of everybody

 _Here goes nothing._  "Ms. Jenson?"

"Yes?" After the initial surprise, her face seems guarded and cautious.

"I…" Before I can continue, I inadvertently look past the house's occupants to the opposite wall. On there are a series of pictures of a youth at various stages of his life: birth, early childhood, school, graduation, in Peacekeeper uniform… not to mention various awards accompanying said pictures. All of that is illuminated by the flickering glow of a solitary candle. In memoriam of a kid who was obviously loved by his family and died horribly just to satisfy the jollies of a bunch of sadists; who died because I was too slow to get help.

And in that moment, my carefully crafted speech falls to pieces. Because there is nothing I can do or say that can truly give this family any solace. So the only thing I can do is hold forward Julian's picture and tags while still trying to muster up something to say. "I… I… I'm sorry… I just…"

_Shut up! Shut up and get your useless hide out of their sight. You're only making things worse.  
_

So after the items are carefully taken from my grasp, I mumble another apology before turning to leave. However a hand gently grips my arm, which causes me to stop and turn back around to see Julian's mother looking at me with tears in her eyes yet an unmistakably welcoming expression on her face; that surprises the hell out of me, but my brain is still too busy seizing up to react. She follows up by asking if my companions and I would like to come in for tea.

For all her reputation for lack of social grace, Katniss answers tactfully in the affirmative for me, and she guides me and Gale into the house.

~oOo~

I hate it here.

Hating being in the Capitol is already a given, especially since I have to stay until Coin gets inaugurated. Apparently there is some meeting that all victors will have to attend before we are all free to head our own way.

However, as I stand in the hovercraft port with the Everdeens at one side, and Gale and Haymitch at the other, I find myself in a whole new level of unpleasantness, with various reasons as to that state.

It could be seeing the grim expressions of the various Guardians, many of whom still are nursing serious injuries, in formation. The same goes for the expressions on the various district soldiers — all are from units, including the Star Squad and Coal Mutts, that have had Central personnel attached to them — as well as Commanders Boggs, Paylor, and Lyme.

It could be the smug expression of accomplishment on Coin's face, as well as that of her cronies, despite that most of the work has been done on the backs of the twelve other districts.

However, most of all, it's the rows of rectangular boxes, sixteen of which are draped with a Chimera-emblazoned flag. At the foot of each of the boxes, rests a pair of boots, helmet, weapon, and identification tags; at one is a ragged collar. Ned tells me that, unless they or their family objects, most of Central's fallen will continue to serve their community by going into the labs; however, it's not hard to see that even the young scientist finds little solace in this fact.

In a short time, a trio of large transport aircraft descends from the sky to settle down in front of the group, causing everybody to stand at attention. After the ramps lower from all three, Porus comes striding out of the middle vessel and is greeted with a unanimous salute, which she returns before motioning the troops before her to proceed with their roles. Without further instruction, people begin boarding the aircraft; most of the troops, Guardian and soldier alike — the latter are apparently going to receive commendations in Central from the Commandant — begin boarding the middle and largest one. For the other two transports, Brutus and Ned begin ordering their subjects into one of them; the other one is for the caskets.

Luce himself is about to board the transport when Porus motions him over. Wordlessly, and with an unreadable expression, he complies and stands at attention in front of the Commandant, likely in wait for some set of orders or lecture.

Instead, what the she does is wrap her arms around him. The moment she does that, the Corpsman's composure shatters and his legs give out. However, Porus doesn't release her grip or attempt to remain standing; instead, she slowly lowers down in a crouch while Luce curls up into a compact ball and clutches tightly at her. As the Corpsman's body shakes with a continuous stream of sobs, all Porus does gently rock him back and forth while softly singing what sounds like a lullaby. At that moment, what I see isn't a commander interacting with her subordinate but rather a mother comforting her son.

Despite this breach in protocol, the rest of the guys from Central don't comment on it, nor do the soldiers, but rather stoically continue on with their business, making sure to give the two a wide berth. Coin seems to be less accommodating about what's happening; in fact, she looks positively impatient by the way she orders Simms to go over there and inform the Commandant that they are on a schedule. However, the moment he begins walking towards the two, Porus briefly looks up to give such a frigid glare that dares him to get closer; the officer from Thirteen immediately backpedals, much to his boss' disapproval.

Finally, Lucy comes out of the aircraft and gives a hug of her own to her brother before carefully extricating him from the first hug and getting him to stand. As the siblings walk up the ramp, with Luce leaning heavily against his sister, Beetee heads the opposite direction followed by Annie and Finnick; all three briefly stop to embrace the Corpsman before continuing on down.

Finnick, with a somber smile, is the first to greet us.  _"Hi, guys. It's good to see you again."_  It looks like he's still choosing not to get a speech synthesizer, but instead of him writing things down, a small projector near his replacement eye now scrawls words in front of his face.

I give a halfhearted smile back. "Same here, though I wish the circumstances were better." After nodding in assent, the two victors from Four proceed to greet Katniss directly, with Finnick giving her as big of a hug as her condition can allow.

Turning back to Porus, I can see that she is in a deep discussion with Coin, with the president offering the usual platitudes about Central's contribution to the Rebellion. I can also tell that, despite the tone and words of the conversation remaining civil, the Commandant is not masking her distaste of the woman in front of her; this especially becomes clear when Coin calls the guys from Central "soldiers", for which she is curtly corrected.

After the conversation ceases, in which Coin's entourage doesn't hesitate to head straight back towards the mansion, Porus begins walking in my direction. This is something I definitely know was inevitable; it doesn't mean I'm looking forward to it. I was the one who asked her to get involved, and now sixteen of her own people have died as a result. I deserve whatever hate she has for me.

I'm getting ready to say something when she shakes her head. "I know what you are going to say, Mellark: that this is your fault or some other nonsense. Well, I'm here is disabuse you of that notion. My troops went into this conflict with the explicit knowledge that there would be a chance some of them may not make back home alive; that's a basic fact of going into the battlefield, no matter how well-equipped you are against your adversary. It doesn't lessen the loss; but, again, we're all aware of the risks. You held your part of the bargain up; this doesn't change things.

"Also…" She looks at me very critically. "Don't think I don't know what you did when those bombs fell. Right now, he may think you were doing him a disservice, but the fact remains that you saved my son's life. Central is not going to forget something like that, nor will I."

Her statement actually means quite a bit, but it doesn't make me feel any less horrible and causes me to mutter, "Still…"

"Yes, I know… Right now, I wish little more than to get my hands on that treacherous and sloppy operative. And once I get enough concrete information, I'm going to make sure that the one who ordered those attacks… the one who made it easy for my troops to be killed… the one who broke my son…" At this point, the rage simmering right under her carefully-crafted veneer of calm threatens to break through. "I'm going to make sure she wishes she never crawled out of that contaminated afterbirth."

Before I can reply to that very implicit statement, the Commandant turns her attention to appraise the girl next to me. "And here is the girl who motivated the boy so much." Katniss still manages to flush red at that statement but says nothing. "I must commend you for the resilience you've shown through your captivity. Not to mention your resourcefulness in the end. Had you not gone through with that plan of yours, Mason and MacLeod may have not been able to break through as easily, with potentially disastrous results."

"Thank you," says Katniss.

The Commandant's eyes shift down. "I also wish the best of luck for the rest of your term. You'll soon find that, no matter where they come from, few things bring as much heartbreak yet as much joy as one's child." I have a feeling the statement isn't just aimed at Katniss.

The two of us actually had a conversation about the subject the night that we reunited. Before Katniss could say anything, I just told her that whatever she decided, I'd support her unconditionally. So when she told me that she decided to keep the baby, I didn't hesitate to say that I'll help raise him if his mother will let me. Because in the end, genetics don't always dictate who the child is. I admit that some twisted part of me wishes that Snow would be alive right now just so that he can watch as that that boy turns into almost everything that he isn't; however, I want nothing to do with the possibility of using any kid as a pawn.

After Porus shares several more pleasantries with Katniss, she finally moves to Prim. "Why haven't you boarded yet?"

Despite probably witnessing many things with a dignified strength, the youngest Everdeen still responds to the Commandant with a squeak: "I was still waiting to make sure that it was alright with you, ma'am."

That earns an approving nod from Porus. "Respectful as well. It seems that the recommendations were not ill-founded. And I have already seen the records of your performance, which are exemplary for your age. Truth be told, Medical had already accepted you, so you could have boarded any time. However, I appreciate your sensibilities. I look forward to seeing how you perform in our setting."

"I appreciate that, ma'am. I promise to do my best there. Though I did also hang back to make sure that it is alright to bring Buttercup and Lady with me." Sure enough, that cat's in her arms and the goat's on a leash. I actually don't know how the latter got here, but maybe they just didn't get around to including that footage.

The Commandant is completely unsurprised by this request. "Yes, it's fine. Though know that we are not responsible if anything should happen to either of them."

"Understood, ma'am. They're already very self-sufficient."

"Also, they are required to ride in the specialized transport." She points to the one where the mutts and machines went into before calling towards Ned: "Bannon, please take care of Everdeen's pets."

"Yes, Commander." Ned doesn't even hesitate in taking on extra animals. When Buttercup responds with his trademark hiss at the possibility of someone else carrying him, all the scientist does is pull some kind of snack out from one of his pouches; that seems to placate the cat, and he allows this new guy to cradle him in his arms. While Prim seems to respond fondly to Ned getting on Buttercup's good side, all Katniss does is offer a derisive snort.

Finally, Prim heads over to the aircraft with Ms. Everdeen, Portia, Darius and Lavinia. Originally we wanted Gale to go with them as well, but he was pretty damn persistent — of all the times for him to get his attitude back — so we finally agreed that he could go with us on the second trip that brings back the victors. While the last of the people board, Darius turns to me for some reason and, with a serious look on his face, proceeds to tap the back of his ear. The implication of his signal is obvious, but I know better than to talk about here, so I just nod my head to show that I understand.

In any case, I don't have time to think about what kind of message will be waiting for me. As the transports take off and fly away, we get ready to head towards the mansion for this special meeting. All we have to do is get it over with and then we can be rid of this wretched place for good.

Should be simple enough.

~oOo~

_She can't be serious… she can't be fucking serious…_

All twelve of us victors look at Coin in shock after her proposal. After all the blood that has been shed to dismantle that wretched institution, the new President of Panem wants to hold another set of Games; except this time she wants it to consist of Capitol children. And she wants us to vote on it.

The sound of a hand slamming onto the tabletop causes me to jump a bit and turn to see Finnick pale and shaking his head as the projector displays repeatedly,  _"No. No. No. No. N—"_

Annie stops Finnick's mantra by pulling him into a hug before she herself says, "I'm in agreement with my husband. No more dead kids."

"Annie's right," I state with barely-restrained anger. "Isn't this partially why we fought this war, so that there would be no more Games?"

"You rebels also had that war to give the Capitol a taste of its own medicine," retorts Enobaria in a cool tone. "I think it's quite appropriate."

"And who's to say this will be the final Hunger Games? Who's to say that the desire for vengeance will be sated with the blood of twenty-three dead Capitol children? Or that the districts won't begin to find amusement in watching something that their own kids don't have to participate in?" By now I don't even bother with restraint, and addressing the whole group, I decide to give a little history lesson. "Do you know that there were originally only supposed to be fifteen Games; one for each year of the Dark Days? We can see how well that turned out. If we continue with this, how are we so sure these Games will be the last. If this continues, who's to say it will be just Capitol kids? Two supplied the Peacekeepers and supported the Games; so why not reap their kids again, except with no volunteers allowed? The next year, we can expand it to One and Four since they had so many loyalists. And then we can expand it to districts that aren't pulling their weight. And so on. When will it end?"

Despite my pleas, Johanna, Enobaria, and Olivine still vote in favor of the Games. I can comprehend how Johanna's anger may influence her decision, but it doesn't make it any less wrong or me any less pissed off at her; granted, Finnick's beaten me to the punch with the withering glare he's giving.

Considering their parenthood, it's no surprise Olympia and Cinnabar vote no. Beetee even backs up his negative vote up with logic. When it comes to Katniss, she grasps my hand tightly and says, "I vote no."

This just leaves Haymitch and Chaff, who stare at each other as if in some deep conversation we're not privy to. Finally, Chaff breaks the silence: "Looks like it doesn't really matter which way we vote." After that muttered statement, both of them finish their glasses of whiskey and vote in the negative. If anything, they look displeased at the result, which I don't get. Don't they care about the kids?

Though nobody's as displeased as Coin. "Well… It's decided then. I hope you all are prepared to face—"

"No…" I growl as I rise up out of my chair and stride over to her. The security guards lining the walls put a tighter grip on their weapons, but their boss seems to be completely unfazed with the fact that she's now face-to-face with me; only acknowledgement is the slightly-raised eyebrow. "You are not going to put this on us. You were the one who brought two reprehensible options on the table: continuing the Games or sanctioned genocide. So I'm telling you that neither should happen. In fact, I can guarantee that without our vote, neither will happen.

"If you value 'population sustainability' so much, then you aren't going to bend to the will of a bunch of fringe elements from the districts. To let them run amok in the Capitol means that you have officially lost control of your populace, and I wonder what kind of message that will send to the districts…"

"Are you finished, Mellark?"  _At least she isn't calling me "Soldier" anymore…_

"No, I'm not…" I lower my voice, even as I notice the rest of the victors nervously shifting in their seats and guards tensing further. "Not by a long shot. Putting the decision on us and giving such half-baked reasons has told me an important thing: you want these Games to continue; probably as a way to distract everyone. However, you're too much of a coward to state the decision as your own. Well, too bad we see through it."

By now, Coin herself dispenses with any pretenses, and the expression on her face becomes ugly indeed. "I really don't know why, but many seem to love you and your fellow victors. You're lucky that's so. Otherwise, I can't be responsible for what happens next."

I should kill her right here and now. I probably won't survive, but it will save this nation a whole ton of grief. It will get her off our backs. It would be the right thing to do in the long term. I don't even have a knife or gun on hand right now, and my cane is secured on my belt loop, yet taking care of the deed shouldn't be that much of a chore when I take in my surroundings: the marble floor, the nearby table corner, a champagne glass, even the capabilities of my own strength and that of the prosthetic; all these elements can be easily be used to bring about a swift end to Alma Coin.

_Then what are you waiting for? Kill her._

Above all, she deserves to die. For all of the people she has hurt in her quest for power. I need to end this while this window of opportunity presents itself.

_Not to mention all the times she tried to make you look the fool. So stop wasting time and kill her! KILL HER NOW!_

Except… I can't. I can't bring myself just strike down an unarmed person like this, not matter how reprehensible they are. It makes me glad that Johanna carried out her deed as I probably wouldn't have been able to keep my promise to kill Snow as well.

Not just that, but when I see all of these armed guards, I know that there's a chance that they will take action against the rest of the victors. Against all these people I know and care about.

_You're willing to damn the future of an entire nation just so that a few of your friends can live at this moment?_

_… Yes._

_Well… you're a piece of work…_

I feel shame coursing through me at this realization, which Coin seems to sense judging from the slightest trace of a triumphant smirk that appears on her face. So the only thing I tell her is, " _You_ are lucky that all I want to do is settle back home."

"And settle you shall. We will even ensure not only the return of all seized accounts but a continuation of victor payments."

"Your generosity is noted." I manage to grit out.

"You're welcome. Now if you will excuse me," she states to all of us, "I have an inauguration to attend. All of you are dismissed and free to go."

As Coin heads out of the office to become the officially become the President of Panem, the double doors behind her and her guards close and a clicking sound tells us that said doors are now locked. With the closing of those doors, comes the sealing of this nation's fate.

And I'm left with the knowledge that that calling Coin a coward was downright hypocritical.

Because I'm the biggest coward of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least Prim and Finnick are alive…
> 
> Thus this chapter continues the trend of reducing guys into broken sobbing wrecks.
> 
> The set-up in front of the caskets is based on the battlefield cross.
> 
> Even the most prosperous city has depressed areas. It's not hard to imagine that not all Capitolites are like the ones portrayed.


	41. Epilogue: The Kingdom Lost

I don't say anything on our return trip back to Central. Actually, most of us don't.

Gale, of all people, tries to lighten up the atmosphere by mentioning that this is the second time in a row that he's going to be arriving in a wheelchair. He not only fails at his attempt but probably makes things worse.

When we arrive, everybody, including Madge and the rest of the Everdeens, is already waiting. Naturally, Katniss is welcomed back with no small amount of excitement. Fortunately, nobody comments on Gale's… condition, though Posy makes sure to curl up on his lap and stay there. Between the much-needed warm welcoming and the fact that Prim's already starting to settle here, at least we're able to get something out of this.

I guess Porus and the other three commanders wanted to wait for us; because the formal medal ceremony begins shortly after our arrival. What's more, I'm sent to the stage to hand out the awards in person; not an issue in itself, but inwardly I feel that the commanders are more suited to the role. After a campaign medal is given to all who served, specific military decorations are awarded for notable acts of valor; some of the actions of these individuals showed so much skill and courage, that I feel both insignificant yet proud to recognize their achievements. Unfortunately, most of the decorations are also posthumous, and I have to give them to family members or close comrades instead; a cowardly part of me keeps wanting to flee every time I have to give a decoration out in a secondhand manner. It's even worse whenever the person before me has visible internal scars; this still includes Luce, who accepts his medal and promotion with the same vacant look in his eyes

Then comes the memorial service.

Despite the assurances of everybody — from the Commandant to friends and families of the fallen — that it wasn't my fault, and that the troops were happy to have me, I can't look at anybody in the eye during the service ceremony; I got them involved in the first place and was a fool to not notice anything suspicious about "Jane". The bodies are already at the labs, but the "battle crosses" have been installed at the base of the memorial statue with pictures, flowers, and candles accompanying them. The service concludes with an honor guard of seven uniformed individuals firing three volleys into the air. There will likely be another one I'll have to attend when I get back to Twelve.

After that business concludes, the soldiers, as well as their commanders, move to depart back to their homes. The commanders and my squadmates stop to wish me the best of luck, giving me their contact info so that we can keep in touch; for some reason, there seems to be an underlying message behind their farewells, but I don't feel like deciphering it right now.

The next morning, I finally meet up with Darius. Beetee already has an Avox reader on hand — Finnick decided to take advantage of his implanted chip and utilize it as a personal storage device — so the victors and I end up watching the footage in the common room, with Katniss holding my hand the whole time.

Once the file is found and I verify my identity, a video of Snow comes up. The now-late president sits casually at his desk with a glass of whiskey in hand, and he regards me with a relaxed smile.

"Mr. Mellark… I'm glad you have gotten this message. It means that Mr. Anders followed his orders like a good Avox and Peacekeeper. It also means that I'm unfortunately no longer among the living, though I doubt that you're grieving about that fact," he calmly states before taking a small drink. "There is so much I'd like to say, but I suspect the time I'm allotted will be short.

"So let me start by congratulating you on a game well-played. Yes, I know you likely still don't view this as such, but it doesn't change things. You managed to not only gain sympathy nationwide, but also gained the attention of those beyond our borders. And even in your probable darkest hour, you gained the trust of my citizens and didn't even have to act to do so. Again, I was not mistaken in how intriguing you are." He raises his glass in salutations. "So cheers; victory is yours.

"Of course, not everybody shares my respect nor acknowledges your accomplishment in a positive manner. I heard about what happened to get you to the hospital, and on that note, let me offer my sympathies for that betrayal you suffered. If you haven't figured it out already, which I doubt, let me assure you that I did not order that attack. True… I have many operatives working for me, but I know for a fact that this one was not mine. And I suspect that you know as well as I do who actually made that order." The funny thing is that, even without my preexisting suspicions, I actually believe Snow. There is no reason at this point for him to lie to me.

A moment passes — in which his pauses to dab more blood off his mouth — before he gets to the point. "The fact remains, and has been obvious to all, that while your actions may have benefited the Rebellion quite effectively, they have brought little benefit to Alma Coin. In fact, you have built yourself up to be quite the political rival. Now, I know that has not been your intention, but when have facts ever got in the way of perception, hm? So it goes without saying that she sees you as a threat. I know that I would have, had you been on the same side as me, and I have been in correspondence with that woman enough times in the past to know that she is even less tolerant of aberrant elements than me, which is saying something.

"Now the smart thing to do is to kill her before she is able to officially ascend to power. However, I suspect that by the time you are watching this, that window of opportunity has passed. And if I'm familiar with you as I think I am, I suspect that you balked at the opportunity. If you didn't, or if somebody else managed to intervene, then crisis averted. But I'm going to assume she is currently the President of Panem.

"In which case, you have a problem.

"Granted, right now, you are untouchable — in fact, all the remaining victors are currently untouchable — and Coin knows it. It's one thing to have you killed in the heat of battle and blame it on the enemy or the fog of war; however, taking you out now risks becoming political suicide for her. It's why I didn't just kill you and Katniss after your first Games; it risked inflaming tensions and people were smart enough to see through any 'accident' ruse. Now you've succeeded in elevating the presence of the victors to unprecedented levels.

"However, don't think that makes you invincible forever. Sooner or later, that popularity can erode if it's not cultivated and if enough media pressure is put on your reputation. I give you two, maybe three, years of peace. After which, you'll be an easy target, especially if you're viewed as a threat. And as mentioned before, you  _will_  be viewed as a threat." The last statement is addressed in such a direct manner that my back stiffens at bit. "And then there's the issue of what Coin's 'utopia' is going to look like. I imagine that she is planning on shaping Panem in her own image, which I suspect many rebels will find to be a very rude awakening.

"All in all, it's disappointing that I will not survive to see this new Panem. I'm quite interested in how you'll deal with the situation. Because while I'm done playing, I suspect that the real part of the game is just beginning for you. I trust that you'll be prepared when that time… comes… hmm… What's this now?" A puzzled expression appears on Snow's face as he looks off to the side. He doesn't even flinch when there is a small muffled sound of explosions. "Well, well, well… looks like Alma's finally making her move; the Capitol markings are an especially nice touch. And look at you there… still doing your best to save your friends. Yes, the future will most definitely be interesting."

Once the second explosions go off, Snow rises up out of his seat to pluck a rose out of a nearby vase and trim the stem down. "It appears that my moment of reckoning is coming sooner than expected." He carefully affixes the rose into the lapel of his jacket before sitting back down. "So I'll end things on this note: I still do not like you much, but you have earned my respect. Besides, there is someone else we both have a mutual and severe distaste for. Therefore, I wish you the best on your endeavors, and I mean that in the mo—"

Snow's recording suddenly freezes, and I turn to see Haymitch with the control in hand and a haggard look on his face.

"Haymitch," I ask, "wha—"

"You're going to need to see this for yourself, boy," he shakily mutters as he switches the input to general broadcast, where Caesar — how he managed to stick around, I have no clue — delivers a report:

"… offered her condolences to District Eight in light of the assassination of local hero and rebel commander Brinna Paylor." What did he just say? "The assassin has not been apprehended yet, nor is the identity known, but they are believed to be part of a group loyal to the late Coriolanus Snow."

Footage is brought up of Paylor, supposedly at her return to Eight. She's walking down a cleared path in the middle of the square to the cheers of the crowd surrounding her. The cheers turn to screams when her head is replaced by a pink mist and body topples to the ground. The footage cuts off as the stunned soldiers try to maintain a semblance of order in the chaos that follows.

I remember Paylor's stern yet fair and compassionate leadership: from the way she led her soldiers to the manner at which she treated the people — be they soldier, civilian, or POW — under her watch. I remember how I once told her that she'd be a great president, and I remember Boggs looking on in alarm at my statement.

And that's why I'm sure that the sniper is definitely not loyalist-affiliated.

I turn to Haymich and quietly state the obvious: "It's not over, is it?"

He just looks at me pityingly. "What do you think?"

With this recent turn of events as well as Snow's implications, another layer of despair blankets me; it adds to the ones built up over the past couple weeks. However, underneath the despair I begin to feel the stirrings of anger and determination.

I guess that settling back in Twelve isn't the only thing I'm going to be doing.

Snow's ugly mug reappears when I switch the input back and have it play again; I might as well finish off the message.

"—st sincere manner." He offers a smug grin as he raises his glass one last time. "So happy Games, Mr. Mellark, and well…

"May the odds be  _ever_  in your favor."

* * *

 

_**To be Continued…** _


End file.
